Very Last Gig
by William Easley
Summary: Woodstick 2017, and Mabel's upset because word is that after this last gig, Sev'ral Timez is disbanding. Dipper learns a little more - but soon enough, strange things begin to happen. Looks like a job for the Mystery Twins!
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own the show GRAVITY FALLS or any of the characters; both are the property of the Walt Disney Company and of Alex Hirsch. I make no money from these stories but write just for fun and in the hope that other fans enjoy reading them. I will ask, please, do not copy my stories elsewhere on the Internet. I work hard on these, and they mean a lot to me. Thank you._

* * *

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**1: Here They Come Again!**

The slow but steady build in tourist volume had begun again. It would crest during the week of Labor Day, but that week would see an additional bump from—

"Woodstick, dawgs!" Soos announced on Thursday at breakfast. He'd stocked up on every imaginable tchotchke, including specially-designed 16-gig USB memory sticks that could hold literally thousands of tunes. Each flash drive had the Woodstick logo on one side and the Mystery Shack logo on the other—each one cost Soos roughly three bucks wholesale, and he marked them up to fifteen dollars retail, then marked them back down immediately to $12.95 as the Special Woodstick Sale Price.

Stan approved. "He's learned a lot as Mr. Mystery!" he told Dipper.

"But wouldn't he make more money at fifteen dollars per item?" Dipper asked.

"Nah! Look, he bought like five hundred of them dealies, right? Trust me on this: At fifteen bucks a pop, he'd sell maybe two hundred, total. OK, that's not bad, three thousand for a clear profit of fifteen hundred bucks. But with 'em marked down to twelve dollars—"

"Twelve ninety-five," Dipper corrected. "That's nearly thirteen."

With a wide grin, Stan said, "Kid, wise up. A tourist never reads past the dollar amount. You slap $12.95 on an item, the mark sees $12.00 even! Plus, the customers believe they're getting' a real bargain—three bucks off the normal price! That's like a twenty per cent savings—in their minds. I say that at the sales price, Soos will unload all five hundred of these beauties, for a gross of $6,475.00, or a net of nearly five thousand bucks!"

"I don't think that's gonna happen," Dipper said.

Stan's eyebrows waggled. "Put your money where your mouth is? Little side bet? You willing to put up twenty bucks that says Soos won't sell five hundred of these things?"

"Don't do it, Dip," Wendy warned in a friendly tone. "Stan only bets on sure things."

"No, he doesn't," said Mabel, who'd just come into the gift shop from the snack bar, where she'd been helping Teek set up for the day. "I got a video of him doing the Apology Dance to prove it!"

"Hey," Stan rasped. "Technically, I won that bet! I made three hundred thou to your measly one buck!"

"But you lost it, and I came out ahead!" Mabel said with a wide grin. "If Dip won't take you up, I'll risk a twenty. I say Soos will top out before they're all sold!"

"Deal!" Stan said. "But, and let's be clear about this, no apology song!"

"Wait, wait," Dipper said. "Yeah, let's get it all very clear—Soos has to sell all five hundred—not four ninety-nine or any other number—for it to count!"

"Agreed," Stan said, but he held up a finger. "Providin' that any that he has to replace 'cause they're defective don't count. He sells all he has on hand, and that's true even if he's gotta replace four or five for circumstances beyond his control."

"Deal!" Mabel said. She reached inside the neck of her red music-staff sweater and produced a crumpled twenty. "Wendy will hold the money!"

Wendy made a face. "Eugh! It's still warm and damp! Dude, I'm not sure I want any part of this."

"Nah, you're good," Stan said. He grudgingly counted out fifteen singles and a five. "There! It's officially a bet!"

"Least you didn't take it out of your shoe," Wendy said.

Stan looked mildly offended. "Nah. What I got in my shoe's my mad money!"

With that out of the way, they got the Shack ready—and just in time, because when Wendy unlocked the doors at nine, there was already a line of a couple dozen people waiting outside.

Stan, peering through the gift-shop window, said, "Yuck, hippies!"

"I don't think those exist anymore," Dipper said as he finished loading up the till of the cash register.

"Yeah, go over to the Hawthorne district of Portland some weekend and come back and tell me that," Stan said. "Anyways, I'm gonna go move the dreamcatchers and the incense to eye-level shelves. I think most of these marks are going on the tour—Wendy's sellin' the tickets—so I got a few minutes. Remember our motto, Dipper—"

"No refunds and always upsell," Dipper said, which really was Stan's motto, though Dipper didn't always live by it and Mabel flat ignored it.

They got busy then. Some of the musicians from Woodstick came in—Love God bought a hundred of the USB drives, and Dipper reflected that just maybe Mabel would lose the bet—and Rinky Tink and the Tinktones bought a dozen packets of ukulele strings, plus three packs of paper printed with music staves.

That was another idea of Stan's—he'd bought a couple reams of paper and had Dipper download a shareware program for a blank music staff, had Dipper print up a thousand pages, and had him divide it into twenty-five-page stacks, which he put in manila envelopes. They sold for five bucks each.

So—sales were brisk. Mingled in with the musicians and performers were the usual—and the unusual—tourists, some of them offbeat because they were devoted followers of indie music groups, and so the morning went.

* * *

In the early afternoon, just as Teek was closing down the snack bar, a neatly-dressed man with a fixed smile and a strangely unfocused gaze dropped in. "Mr. Strange!" Dipper said. "Nice to see you again!"

Mabel came out of the snack bar. "Tad! Hiya! How's Sev'ral Timez? How are you?"

"They're fine," Tad said. "Thank you for asking. I'm pleased to be back in Gravity Falls."

"Where you been, man?" Wendy asked.

"Oh," Tad said, "New York City, Philadelphia, Arlington, Asheville, Atlanta, Orlando, Gulf Shores, Houston, Springfield, Steamboat Springs, Phoenix, San Jose, Reno, Seattle, Portland, and now here."

"Wait, you and Sev'ral Timez have been on tour?" Mabel asked.

Tad's smile did not change. "Oh, yes. We did quite well. I'm happy for the boys."

"Congratulations!" Dipper said.

"Are they here?" Mabel asked, jumping on the counter and surveying the crowd . Teek came from the snack bar drying his hands on a towel and growling a little. Mabel always got a little too friendly with the five members of Sev'ral Timez for his comfort.

"No, they're setting up for Woodstick. Someone told me you have USB memory sticks for sale?"

"Right here!" Stan said, bringing over one. "Ideal for recording music, marked down from, uh, twenty bucks to twelve ninety-five 'specially for Woodstick!"

"That's pleasant to hear!" Tad said. "How many do you have in stock?"

"Uh, I dunno. Four hundred, three hundred fifty, somewhere along in there."

"I will buy all of them you have," Tad said.

"Deal!" Stan said before Mabel could even gasp.

Stan counted them out—three hundred and ninety were left—and Tad paid him $5,115 in cash. "Pleasure doin' business with you!" Stan said. "We miss you around here."

"Oh, I'll be moving back this fall," Tad said. "The boys are retiring."

Mabel, who was still grinding her teeth as she watched Wendy hand Stan forty bucks, yelped, "Wait, what? The band's breaking up?"

"No," Tad said. "Just retiring from music."

"No!" Mabel dropped to her knees. "They're my most favorite five-person boy band made up of clones in the whole world! No more Sev'ral Timez?"

"They will keep their website and will sell copies of their music," Tad said. "I'm managing that, along with their—well, I'll let them tell you. Come over to the show grounds around seven this evening. They'll treat you to dinner and you can visit. But have them back by eight-thirty. They need to practice with the sound system."

"Teek's coming, too!" Mabel said.

"That's fine," Tad said. "I have to head back now. It's been nice to see you."

Soos, in Mr. Mystery garb, came in as Tad left, leading a tram-full of tourists into the gift shop. "Soos!" Stan said. "How soon can you order more of them USB musicky doohickies?"

"All I gotta do is call," Soos said. "The copier shop can print the logos today and we can pick 'em up first thing tomorrow morning. Why?"

"'Cause we're sold out!" Stan announced with a wide grin. "Better order another two—no, make it three-gross! And ask Beaman if somebody can pick 'em up at eight-thirty tomorrow morning."

Soos reached for the phone and made the call. "Same colors, yeah," Soos said. "OK, same price per each? Cool! Thanks, Mr. Beaman! Oh, and can somebody be there at eight-thirty tomorrow for us to pick them up? Sure! Just a sec." Soos covered up the handset and said, "Who's gonna pick 'em up?"

"Mabel will," Stan said, with his widest grin. "Won't you, Sweetie?"

"If you'll buy me five dollars' worth of gas," Mabel said.

"Ten!" Stan shot back.

"Three!" Mabel said.

"Deal!" Stan said.

"Deal!" Mabel said. "Wait, what?"

"I learned that from you," Stan told her. He peeled off three singles. "Here ya go. Knock yourself out!"

"Uh, Hambone? Mr. Beaman says to knock on the back door—go down the alley, you know, to the loading dock or whatever—and him or Linda will hand over the package. I'll give you a PO, you get them to initial one copy, and bring it back with the stuff. Uh, I'll write down the amount and make sure they initial that, OK?"

"Yeah, yeah," Mabel said in a grumpy tone.

"OK," Soos said into the phone. "Mabel Pines will be there at eight-thirty sharp. Thanks, Mr. Beaman!"

"Since you're off the snack-bar register," Wendy said, "take over the second register in here, Mabes."

"I once _ran _this joint!" Mabel moaned. "Now I'm taking orders from Wendy!"

"Yeah, well, don't make bets against a sure thing," Stan said.

"You knew about this!" Mabel accused.

"No, honest, hand to God!" Stan said. "It's just—you know, studyin' the people that come to Woodstick, analyzin' their buyin' habits—Dip, how many dreamcatchers ya sold so far?"

"About a dozen," Dipper said.

"There, see? How many boxes of incense?"

"Thirty or so."

"Uh-huh. It's all in knowing the customers. I'll bet we sell at least two-thirds of the new bunch of USBs, too," Stan told Mabel. "Wanna bet?"

"No, thanks. Wendy, could Teek and me at least have lunch before I take over the register?"

"Take half an hour," Wendy said.

"Come on, Teek, let's have a couple burgers," Mabel said, heading with her boyfriend back into the snack bar.

"Hey, you're generous with her," Dipper said. "You and I just take twenty minutes for lunch!"

"Well, she had a little shock there—Sev'ral Timez breakin' up."

They got busy then, and the crowd surged around three PM. Then it began to ebb, until at six they closed, tired but happy—Soos said they were already well into the black for the week, not counting what business they'd do in the next two days. Wendy advised, "Call Gideon and Ulva in for tomorrow and Saturday, man. We're gonna need them."

"Good idea," Soos agreed.

"We gonna get time off to go to Woodstick?" Wendy asked.

They negotiated. Dipper and Wendy could leave at four on Friday and Saturday, providing Melody, Lorena, and Sheila could help out for a couple hours. That would give them prime-time seats at Woodstick. And, generously, Soos said, "I'll still, like, pay you guys!"

That was sweet, and unnecessary, and might have given Stan a conniption except he was riding high on winning the bet with Mabel and, anyway, he knew the Shack and the small mobile Shack would turn a tidy profit. And besides, he was the festival organizer, he got a cut of all the concessions, and what the heck, it was only money. Sweet, sweet money.

Mabel asked if they wanted to tag along to have dinner with Sev'ral Timez, but they begged off—"We'll see 'em perform," Wendy said.

"We may even buy one of their USB collections," Dipper added with an innocent smile. "Even though I'll bet they charge twenty-five dollars a pop!"

Muttering unhappily, Mabel set off with Teek.

"So where do we want to go for dinner?" Wendy asked.

"What do you feel like?" Dipper asked.

"Mm—tell you what, let's go out of the Valley. Every place here's gonna be crowded with musicians and groupies and all. How about goin' up to Morris? Somebody said the new Asian Fusion place there's pretty good."

"It's a date," Dipper said.

They went in Wendy's car. Dipper, sitting in the passenger seat, picked up a magazine from the floor—_Indie Fuzz, _a music magazine she liked to read.

"Oh, yeah, forgot I had that," Wendy said. "It came a week or two ago, but I never have time at work to read these days. Toss it in the back seat."

Dipper had opened it to the Contents page. "No way!" he said. "Here's a coincidence—there's a story about Sev'ral Timez!"

"'Bout their tour?" Wendy asked.

"Let me see . . . page 39. Um. 'Last Gigs for Sev'ral Timez.' Um, '. . . their manager, Tad Strange, has announced their retirement when their current tour ends . . . set a record for attendance in Orlando . . . and they sold out the Magnesia Arena in Atlanta for four performances . . . huh! That's why they're retiring!"

"What, Atlanta?"

"No," Dipper said. "They say they're tired of being on the road all the time, and they're going to be TV actors in a new sitcom—_Brothers at Law. _Quote: _ '_the adventures of five wacky brothers who start a law firm . . . four of them are attorneys, but the fifth one can't pass the bar exam . . . .premieres next fall on Webflix for an initial thirteen episodes.' Hey, did you know the guys' last name is Boyzman? With a Z?"

"Nope. I don't know if_ they_ even knew it! Sounds like something their old manager, you know, the crook, what's-his-name—"

"Ergman Bratsman. The story says he's finally out of prison. Tad got a restraining order against him, so he can't interfere with the guys. He's also banned from the music industry and the International Association of Biological Research has expelled him and legally enjoined him from all future cloning experiments. Says Tad was behind all that, too."

"Good for Tad! Anyways, that name, Boyzman, sounds like something he'd make up. So what about him? Tad Strange, I mean."

"Let me see. Story says he's going to continue as their manager and agent. After four years straight, they got tired of touring and somebody from Webflix pitched them the idea for the show, and they like it. Huh. Gonna be recorded in Oregon."

"If they can act at all, I guess they'll do OK," Wendy said. "If Xyler and Craz could be lawyers, anybody can."

"Yeah, but those two didn't do so well," Dipper pointed out.

Wendy nodded. "Lucky for us. Their ineptness—wait, ineptitude? Which is it?"

"I think both are acceptable," Dipper said.

"Anyway, their lousiness at being lawyers got us out of Mabel Land."

"Hey, I thought it was my brilliant defense," Dipper said, grinning.

"Mm, could be that, too," Wendy said with a chuckle.

"Oh, well, maybe Mabel will be pacified by the TV deal," Dipper said, closing the magazine. "She loves her Sev'ral Timez."

"And now they'll always be closer," Wendy said.

"At least for as long as it takes to make thirteen episodes," Dipper agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**2: It's Only Rock 'n Roll**

Teek and Mabel accepted some money from Tad Strange—two hundred in twenties, in fact—and he told them, "Just ask the boys where they'd like to go. If they don't know, then ask them what they want to eat. They're easy to please."

"What about you?" Mabel asked. "Aren't you going with us?"

"Oh, no," Tad said, smiling. "My place is a mess. I haven't been home in eleven months, so I'm going to spend the evening cleaning up. Vacuuming, dusting, airing out the place, that will be fun. I'll enjoy that."

"Uh—OK, have fun!" Mabel said.

She had talked Soos into letting her borrow his pickup, which had an extended cab and a backseat, but more important, a bed. They crammed Deep Chris, Chubby Z, and Leggy P into the backseat, but Creggy G and Greggy C rode in the truck bed, leaning out and with their tongues flapping in the breeze, like blond blue-eyed puppies.

"So what do you guys want to eat?" Teek asked as he turned in the passenger seat to look back at the three guys behind him.

"Yo! A pizza!" Chubby Z said at once. "We haven't had pizza since when?"

"Y'all," said Leggy P, "I think it was maybe the Fourth of July?"

"In Reno!" Deep Chris said. "Yo! Time for a pizza, dig it!"

"Um," said Mabel, who was having a bit of trouble getting a straight shift into first gear, "do you want to go to Hoo-Ha Owl's in the Mall?"

"Naw, girl!" yelped Deep Chris, sounding alarmed. "That place is straight terrifying!"

"I hear the animatronics come alive after closing," said Leggy P. "Stalking the place after dark, yo! They say no night security man ever survives more than five nights at Hoo-Ha's!"

"Let's go, like, somewhere where there's pizza to be eaten out in the wide, wide world, girl," chimed in Chubby Z. "For we are now experienced men of the world, yo!"

"Geeno's Pizzarama in Mossy Run," Teek said at once. "It's good, and it's the closest. Ugh—be a little more careful and don't grind the gears. Want me to drive?"

"No, I got this!" said Mabel, struggling with the clutch. They were rolling, but the truck lurched a little.

"I want pepperoni and prosciutto, dogs!" said Deep Chris.

"Not me. I'm a lacto-vegetarian!" announced Leggy P. "I want cheese and all the veggies they can pile on, yo!"

"Yo!" said Chubby Z. "The works just as well for me! Also, Greggy C just fell out of the truck a ways back, girl."

Mabel braked, Greggy C came hustling up, panting for air, and after some work, Teek managed to Tetris the two who had been in the truck bed into the back seat with the other guys. Then, with a jerk, Mabel set off for Mossy Run, fortunately just five miles outside the Valley, and all the pizza two hundred bucks could buy.

Geeno's had an offensive slogan ("It's-a just like-a home, but-a better!") but a varied menu with something for everyone. Better still, it conserved on electricity by lighting the tables with candles wedged into wax-drippy wine bottles, so they weren't likely to attract much attention. But Mabel took care of this, too.

She went in alone and at the welcome station asked to see the manager. A red-faced, short, heavy man in a dingy tuxedo, he came out of the office. "I'm Mr. Venialli, the manager. What seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"Oh, no _problem_!" Mabel said with her most ingratiating smile. "Just a simple request for a little favor, that's all. We have some celebrity guests, and they want a good pizza, and your restaurant is highly recommended, but you know how celebrities are! Just one glimpse, and there'll be pandemonium! Do you happen have an out-of-the-way table for seven where our guests won't attract paparazzi? That's Italian for 'photographers,' you know."

"I _am_ Italian," the man said with dignity. "Well—my grandparents on my father's side were. My other grandparents were German and Irish. I don't know—we do have a meeting room, but it's usually only occupied for parties or—"

"This," Mabel said, passing him a couple of bills, "Is forty dollars. Not a bribe, you understand, Mr. Venialli, just a friendly gift."

The two twenties vanished as though the manager's other ancestors had all been stage magicians and he had inherited their sleight of hand skills. "Then have them come in the side entrance," he said quietly. "Um—by the way, who are they?"

"Sev'ral Timez," Mabel whispered.

"Ooh!" Mr. Venialli squealed, causing diners at a couple of tables to glance around.

"Sh-sh-sh!" Mabel said hastily. "Don't spread it around."

Whispering, Venialli said enthusiastically, "They're my daughter's favorite singers! Look, would it be all right if I called my wife and had her drive Gina over? She's less than half an hour away. Gina would just love to meet them! If she can, I—well, I guarantee first-class service!"

"How old is Gina?" Mabel asked.

"Twelve tomorrow!"

Ah. The optimum age for a Sev'ral Timez fan! "Sure, bring her over. If she's got CD's or memorabilia, have her bring them and we'll get her autographs. And she can pose for selfies with the guys."

"I will be as silent as the tomb!" Mr. Venialli promised, a finger to his lips.

The meeting room could have held twenty comfortably, so seven was no problem. They sat at a long table with a red-and-white checked tablecloth and real cloth napkins. With some pride, Mabel noted that not one of the guys, not even Creggy G, attempted to eat the napkins, the flaked-pepper or Parmesan shakers, or the salt and pepper shakers. In the end, they agreed well enough on what they wanted to order six pizzas—Creggy and Greggy both wanted plain cheese—and at eighteen bucks a pop, that left money for drinks all around and a generous tip.

The lighting was a little better in this room, and Mabel felt a kind of nostalgic pang, looking at the guys. Tad Strange kept their whites for onstage, and now they were all in civilian garb, jeans and tee shirts or—in Deep Chris's case—a heavy denim long-sleeved shirt. He still wore his white fedora, though.

Anyway, they looked much better than they had after returning to civilization following many, many months living with Multibear in his den. Still, in denims and ordinary clothes, they looked different from the way Mabel remembered them. They had changed. Of course, she had too—she was no longer twelve.

Three waiters took excellent care of them, and the pizzas were tasty, with a mix of thin and hand-tossed crusts, as requested. As the boys ate, sharing slices of each other's pizzas, Mabel asked, "Are you guys really breaking up the group?"

"Yo," said Chubby Z with a shrug, "not as such. We're family, girl! But this traveling on the road for eleven months every year gets straight old, girl."

"We're not kids any longer," said Leggy P as he picked up a slice of pizza trailing strings of mozzarella. "In another year, we are gonna be thirty, y'all!"

"So we're gonna give TV acting a whirl, girl," said Creggy G. "I think we got a potential hit on our hands here."

Greggy C added, "And if it bombs, dogs, we can make a musical comeback, Tad says."

"And it's not like we're giving up music. For instance, we'll record the series theme song, yo," said Chubby Z. "Plus, in the show bible, the guys we play are amateur musicians, so there'll be probably one number we'll do in each episode, girl. Enough for a tie-in album!"

They talked animatedly of the TV show and its concept. They were playing the Witebred family, five brothers close in age ("One set of twins, one trio of triplets," Deep Chris explained). Creggy and Geggy were the twins, Chet and Chad, while the other three were the triplets, Adam, Bond, and Curt.

"And we're like attorneys, dig it," said Chubby Z. "We're a struggling start-up firm, but we take on any case if the cause is righteous, no matter how hopeless, and we always win and set right the wrongs for the underdogs, yo!"

"But Curt, that's Deep Chis, has like wild test anxiety!" said Leggy P. "So he's already failed the bar, like, four times already."

"This is set in California," Deep Chris said. "Gonna record the episodes in some little town south of Portland, 'cause it's cheaper, but it's set in Northern California. So my character has no limit on how many retakes of the test he gets to do. But Curt's struggles are the arc of the first season, yo. The payoff is that in the last show I take the bar exam while straight hypnotized not to be anxious! And the results come in, and I open the envelope—"

"And straight cut to black!" exclaimed Chubby Z. "That is what in the business we call a total cliffhanger, girl! That's so fans will insist that we have to have a Season 2!"

Mabel began to relax. From what the guys said, the show would mingle drama with music and comedy—lots of comedy—and the guys would be essentially just playing themselves. It just might work out after all!

Then Mr. Venalli ushered in his eleven-nearly-twelve-year-old daughter, a thin red-haired girl with a blindfold on. Her mom—from whom she obviously inherited her red hair—stood smiling in the doorway.

"Now, Gina," said Mr. Venalli softly, "you can take off the blindfold. Happy birthday! And surprise!"

Gina Venalli's shriek possibly could shatter wineglasses. "Sev'ral Timez!" she screamed.

"'Sup, girl?" Deep Chris said, roguishly tilting his fedora.

Gina very nearly had ecstatic hysterics.

Lots of photos with lots of hugs, lots of autographs later, Mr. Venalli accepted three weekend passes to Woodstrick from Mabel and told her the meal was on the house, as long as he could hang up personally autographed 8x10s of the guys. His daughter had about half a dozen of each individual group member, along with four or five of all the guys together, and the brothers cheerfully signed them all in permanent marker, personalizing them as Mr. Venalli and his daughter requested.

The waitstaff happily accepted over-generous tips—Mabel spent the rest of Tad's money on that, because why not? Everyone was happy.

A good time was had by all, in short, and Mabel scavenged enough slices of leftover pizza to take home two boxes to share with Soos and his kids the next day. She even mellowed out enough to let Teek drive the pickup back—they dropped Sev'ral Timez off at the festival site, where they said goodnight outside of their well-appointed RV dressing room—and as they reached the Shack, Mabel said, "You'll have to show me the trick of shifting gears. Somehow I jerk the truck around a little."

"It's just coordination and timing," Teek said. "Hey, Mabel. Um. Well. I—OK, I'm a little jealous of the way you look at those guys. But I have to say, they were great. So—don't be mad at me for being kind of a jerk earlier, OK? I love you, and I'm sorry that I was grumpy."

She kissed him. In fact, they sat in the truck cab smooching for a few minutes.

It was so pleasant that they didn't notice someone else in a parked car. They were under a light. The other car was tucked into the shadowy, dark corner of the lot.

And a fat man in the passenger seat lowered his night-vision binoculars. "That's her," he said bitterly. "That's the girl that stole my clones, got me arrested, and got me run out of the music business!"

"All right," the driver, a skinny, younger guy, said nervously, "what are you planning, Boss? Because I'll tell you, I'm not into beating up girls."

"Oh, shut up," complained the fat man. "Have I asked you to rough her up?"

"Not yet," admitted the driver.

"And I won't. Because what I'm going to do for Mabel Pines is the same thing she did to me—I'm going to ruin her! Maybe even land her in prison!"

"Uh—how?" asked the driver.

"I don't know! I'll think of something," the fat man said. "There they go. Who's the kid that drove the truck?"

"How would I know that?" muttered the driver. "I'm not from around here!"

"Well, find out" said the fat man.

"OK, sure. Uh—how?"

"Do I have to think of everything? We'll wait here until he comes out and follow him home. Once we know where he lives, it'll be easy to figure out who he is. Any moron can do that."

"Oh."

"So," finished Ergman Bratsman, "it should be just the job _you _were cut out to do."


	3. Chapter 3

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**3: You're the Only One**

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines: **_(Thursday Night)—The name of the restaurant was "The Rambutan Rose." It looks sort of weird—it's basically a store of some kind, but the exterior was redecorated to look like, um—this is hard! From left to right as you look at it: a pagoda; a section of the Great Wall of China; and a miniature Taj Mahal._

"_I guess it specializes in Japanese, Chinese, and Indian dishes," I said as Wendy parked the car._

"_From what I hear," she told me, "it also includes Thai, and Korean. Looks like it's popular, anyhow. Lots of cars for a Thursday night."_

_We got out and entered the Great Wall, which was the center bit. "What was this before it was a restaurant?" I asked._

"_Used to be two stores, a hobby shop and a florist's shop. Japan was the hobby and craft shop, India was the florist, China here used to be the alley in between 'em. Now there's also a kitchen added on."_

"_Hi," said a waitress who didn't look as if she'd ever come any closer to Asia than maybe Portland. "Two?"_

"_Two," I said._

"_Booth or table?"_

"_Whichever," Wendy said. "We're hungry."_

"_Follow me." She picked up two thick, tall menus, and we wound our way through India, to a back corner where there was a small booth with high-backed benches, just big enough for two people. It was like they'd sawed one of their regular booths in thirds, and this was a third of a normal one._

_"Ladies' room?" Wendy asked._

_"I'd better show you," the waitress said. "It's a little confusing to get to from here."_

_While the ladies were away, I read the menus. Wendy came back and slipped onto the bench across from me. "What looks good?"_

_"I don't even know what half of this stuff is!" I said._

"_How do you feel," she asked me as she studied her own menu, "about sushi?"_

"_Uh . . . raw fish?"_

_Wendy laughed. "Not necessarily! Let me order us some sushi and I'll give you a little gastronomical training, OK?"_

"_I guess I have to trust you," I said, "because I'm in love with you."_

"_Good answer!" she said._

_When the waitress came back, Wendy placed the order. Let me write this down so I can remember it if we eat at a Japanese place again._

_So we had:_

_Philadelphia rolls. These had some cream cheese, avocado, and some salmon in rice wrapped in seaweed._

_King crab rolls. These were cooked crab with mayonnaise._

_Boston rolls. These had shrimp, avocado, and cucumber._

_Spider rolls. These were fried soft-shell crab meat, avocado, cucumber and spicy mayonnaise._

_On the side were soy sauce and small bowls of what I thought was guacamole, but Wendy warned me it was wasabi and was very, very spicy. She also ordered a bottle of sake, along with a pot of hot jasmine tea._

"_OK, so these rolls all have cooked fish or shrimp," she told me. "Can you use chopsticks?"_

"_Not very well," I said. In Chinese places, Mabel uses them—but more like miniature shovels than instruments to pick stuff up delicately. I mean, she holds a bowl of rice close to her mouth and flicks the rice in with the chopsticks._

"_Take my hand," Wendy said, reaching across the table. I did, and she shot me the practical knowledge of how to manipulate chopsticks. That gave me an edge, and I soon picked up the knack. The tea came in a small china pot with two handle-less cups. The sake came in a bottle with two shot glasses._

_Wendy poured sake into one of the shot glasses and passed it to me. "Now you're supposed to pour for me," she said. I did. The drink was a pale white, like skim milk mixed half and half with water. I looked at the label. It had a cartoon of a smiling monkey and Japanese writing, but the other side had a translation: YOTTA SARU, and under that in smaller letters, Nigori Sake._

"_This is alcoholic, right?" I asked._

"_Yeah, mildly," Wendy said._

_"But we're underage!"_

_"Well, I kinda showed the waitress our IDs when I went to the restroom," Wendy said. "The fake ones your Grunkle Stan gave me a while back. We're both 21 for tonight only. And I promise, just this one small bottle."_

_"We could get caught," I said cautiously._

_With a grin and a shrug, Wendy said, "I don't think it'll really affect us, 'cause it's not hard liquor. It's sorta Japanese rice beer, so you don't knock it back, but just sip it. If you don't like it, that's why we have tea."_

_So we ate sushi and drank sake. The taste surprised me—it wasn't like the horrible taste of Grunkle Stan's beer, but sort of mildly sweet and almost spicy. The sushi was pretty good, too—the rice was gummy, but it was supposed to be, and I especially liked the rolls with avocado in them. Wendy warned me about the wasabi, so I barely got a few specks on a chopstick and applied them to the rolls. It was strong._

_We finished the meal and then sat talking for nearly an hour while sipping tea. Wendy had most of the bottle of sake—about twelve ounces total, judging from the bottle—and I had just about one and a half little shot glasses of it, maybe two and a half ounces, total._

_So I don't think I was drunk, but I laughed a lot and Wendy's lips had never looked more kissable to me._

_We finished and paid up—it wasn't cheap, about forty bucks for the two of us, and I gave the waitress a ten-dollar tip because we'd sat there so long—and we went out into the dark friendly night, and at the car I pushed Wendy back until the car blocked her and I pressed close and gave her a long, long kiss._

"_Whoa, buddy!" she said, laughing, when we broke apart. "Who are you and what did you do with my shy little Dipper?"_

"_I guess it's the sake," I said._

"_OK, if it was that strong, let's do the test." She held up a finger. "Watch my finger. Follow it with your eyes." She moved it side to side, and I watched._

"_It's the most beautiful finger I ever saw," I told her._

"_Mm-hm." She walked about ten feet away and told me to walk toward her, touching my heel to my toe at each step, and then to walk back. I did it. "So far, so good," she said. "Now stand straight, with your arms at your side, and raise one foot off the ground and hold it with the sole parallel to the ground while counting one, one-thousand, two-two thousand, and so on until I tell you to stop."_

_I got to thirty-one thousand and she said I could stop. Then she tossed me the keys. "Here you go, Dip. You can pass a drunk test. Me, I had nearly a whole bottle, so I'd better ride shotgun."_

_Which was ridiculous, I found out later. Sake has about a fifteen per cent alcohol content, pretty high for beer, but about the equivalent of wine. Wendy had drunk maybe nine to ten ounces. I looked up the tables, and her blood alcohol after an hour would probably have run about .06. Mine was probably no more than .02. Neither of us was drunk, in other words—in Oregon you get a DUI if your level is .08 or higher._

_But we both felt really good, and if it had been a shorter ride to town, who knows? We just might have celebrated an early honeymoon._

_However, we didn't, though I will confess we did a little snuggling and smooching out in the bonfire clearing. Even at night, out there a bit of mental making out was as far as we'd push it._

_After all, for all we knew, a dozen Gnomes might have been spying on us._

* * *

Fortunately for them both, the Yotta Saru sake didn't give either of them a hangover. And Friday they got up at their usual early hour and did their usual morning run—their nature trail, because it was a fine cool summer morning with the sun coming up in a clear sky. Toward the end of the Mystery Trail, where Soos turned the tram in a broad circle, they glimpsed a creature far ahead on the borders of the forest.

"Deer?" Dipper asked, trying to shade his eyes without slowing his pace.

"Kinda big," Wendy said. "And its forequarters aren't like a deer's. I think it's a Glaistig. Be careful."

"A what? Glass—what?"

"_Glaistig_," Wendy said more firmly. "Slow down."

They slowed to a moderate jog. After a couple of seconds, the creature, whatever it was, bolted into the woods.

"You should be OK now," Wendy said. In a moment they turned off the beaten path, taking their own way over the round hills that were recovering, slowly, from an old forest fire. The trees that were ankle-high saplings years before, when the two had begun their running routine now were shoulder- high or taller, but still spread thinly enough for them to weave their way through without much trouble. Eventually they came out on the hilltop that overlooked Moon Trap Pond, where the naiad Numina lived.

They didn't usually come close to it—skirting it with a wide berth—and they did so that morning, and then ran back up the slope to the Lonely Man, a standing stone that, legend said, was a Native American who had been turned to stone for angering his gods in some way.

Wendy and Dipper picked up speed again and ran back to the Mystery Trail, past the new animatronic-style exhibit that Soos had built, and eventually to the bonfire clearing, where they sat for a little while.

"What," Dipper asked, "is a Glaistig?"

"You don't know?" Wendy asked, raising an amused eyebrow. "Hey, dude, you're the cryptozoological expert!"

"I never heard of that, though," Dipper said.

"Well—I don't even remember where I heard about them. Probably from my Aunt Sallie or one of my other older relatives. Comes of my Celtic heritage, I suppose—if I have one."

"Assume you do," Dipper said with a smile.

"Dunno, man. It might make you love me less!"

"Wendy," Dipper said seriously, "I wouldn't love you any less if you were descended from . . . from the world's tallest Gnome!"

"Hey!" yelled a voice from somewhere in the underbrush. "Words can hurt!"

"Sorry!" Dipper yelled back. "Let me rephrase that. If you were, um, a Dryad, I couldn't love you any less."

"Dryad, like a tree goddess, right?" Wendy asked.

"Right," Dipper said. "A beautiful goddess of the forest."

"So I guess my bark would be worse than my bite," Wendy said. "But I got no bark. Feel how soft."

"Hotcha!" yelled the same mysterious voice from the undergrowth.

"My cheek, smart-ass!" Wendy yelled. "No free show this morning!"

"Aww."

"Anyhow," Dipper said after the obligatory kiss, "what's a Glaistig?"

"I don't know if they're supposed to be ghosts or what-you-call-it, um, chimeras. Did I say that right, chimera?"

"Grunkle Ford pronounces it with a _k_ sound, not a _ch_ like in chimney," Dipper said.

"Chimera," Wendy said, correcting her pronunciation. "OK, right, Glaistigs. They're also called Green Ladies, I think. They're part deer and part women."

"Oh—cervitaurs!" Dipper said. "Half human, half deer!"

"Cervitaur," Wendy repeated. "All right, Glaistig is like Gaelic or some language for cervitaur. Is that legit mythology?"

"I suppose," Dipper said. "Goes back to Greek and Roman times, I think—fauns are part human, part goat, minotaurs are part human, part bull. Same general idea."

"Right," Wendy said. "Well, in the old tales a Glaistig is always female, right? She has the body and legs of a reindeer, but from the waist up, she's a beautiful woman. Know why she has to be part reindeer instead of part white-tailed or elk or something?"

"No idea," Dipper said.

"No, that's what you call a blind deer," Wendy told him. "It's because reindeer are the only species in which the females have antlers, just like the males."

"I did not know that," Dipper said. And then he guffawed. "I just got it!" he said. "No-eye deer! That's awful!"

"Let's get back to Wendy's Guide to Forest Safety," she said, grinning. "Like I said, the female part of the Glaistig, from just below the belly button up to the top of her antlers, is gorgeous. Irresistible to a human male. She has these great big round—"

"Yeah!" said the small voice from the bushes.

"—eyes, you little perv! They're hypnotic. The Glaistig lures human males to her lair somewhere in the deep forest—and there she slaughters them and drinks their blood."

"Yuck!"

"If you don't want to hear it," Dipper told the hidden Gnome, "just go away!"

"No, it's interesting."

"Anyhow," Wendy said, "that's what a Glaistig is supposed to be like. Supposing they even exist. But, hey, in the Valley here we got Manotaurs, we got werewolves, I'm pretty sure we got fauns and we know of at least one nymph, so why not?"

"I think I'll ask Great-Uncle Ford if he's heard about them," Dipper said. "Might be something to research."

"Yeah, well, be careful and if you want to go hunting one, I gotta go with you. Girls are immune to the Glaistig's spell." She leaned close to Dipper. "And I know how susceptible you can be!"

He had not realized that she'd popped a peppermint into her mouth until he caught the aroma on her warm breath. It was an invitation to a passionate kiss.

Before it ended, the concealed Gnome burst into approving applause.

Not that they did it to make _him_ happy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**4: Sold My Soul to Rock 'n' Roll**

One thing about being a music mogul: You get a buttload of cash money from various sources, the lion's share as unreported income. Ergman Bratsman had regularly reported his income as about a hundred and fifty thousand a year, plus or minus ten grand, and out of that he had taken large chunks for charitable deductions, most of the charity money winding up in the Top Tune Foundation, which paid him a nontaxable honorarium for his work. The honorarium always equaled his donations. Funny, but true.

However, over and above the $150k, little Ergy (as his mother had called him, before he foreclosed her house and evicted her—afterward, she called him other things) regularly got, in untraceable cash, about three hundred thousand a year in unreported income. Bratsman was many things, most of them rotten, but one thing he was not was a spendthrift. He socked away over four million dollars of cash here and there in hidey-holes and safe-deposit boxes and other places.

So when it looked as though his prison term was going to stretch out indefinitely, he pulled a few strings, made a few political donations, and as recently as the preceding June he had humbly accepted a Presidential pardon—his conviction for illegal medical experimentation, which carried the harshest penalty and the longest sentence, had been tried in Federal court. On the first day of July 2017, Bratsman had walked out of the Sherman Federal Corrections Center, a medium-security institution, a free man.

And he still had well over half of his secret funds stashed away. On his release, the prison gave him back what he'd had when arrested—including a wallet with about two thousand dollars in it.

He could make that last. He very carefully moved into the Commfy Inne, an extremely cheap extended-stay motel in the town of Sheridan, not far from the prison and about fifty miles southwest of Portland. The motel was a run-down, peeling brick building (it had been painted some shade of yellow once, but now was a mottled dirty-white and sickly orange) on a shabby street of blocky businesses.

From his room, he had a view, if he wanted it, of a drab brick superette market, or maybe a sub-par-ette market. A row of strange murals had been painted on its side wall: an ox laden down with buffalo hides, a surreal impression of a 19th-century logging train with logs as big as the locomotive loaded on its flatcars, a truck vintage 1914 puttering down a street lined with citizens who looked like scarecrows escaped from their fields, and—for some reason—six dogs performing an obscure circus act. All the pictures had faded nearly to oblivion, and there was an outside chance that the moose might have been instead intended to be a portrait of Teddy Roosevelt.

Bratsman's bed was thin and squeaky, the sheets about as soft as sandpaper. The cheapo motel didn't have room phones or even TVs. No matter. Bratsman reactivated his cell phone account and paid for two months' residence, though he planned to live there for no more than a couple of days. He arranged to have any mail forwarded to an address in Portland—a mail drop, one of about a dozen he'd established around the country—and then he called Wilmer Gunzell, a go-fer who had worked for him back when he was a wheel in the music biz. On the day that Bratsman had gone into the slammer, Wilmer was nineteen. He was twenty-four now. And from the sound of it, he wasn't doing so hot.

"You even working?" Bratsman asked.

"Kinda," Wilmer said.

"Doing what?"

Reluctantly, Wilmer admitted he was sweeping out Henny's Rode House in San Francisco, a rude, crude joint where some of Bratsman's lowest-class acts had performed once upon a long-ago time. Sweeping out and breaking up fights and washing crud off the dishes and blood off the walls. He got fifty bucks a week and a cot to sleep on.

"You want to come to work for me again?" Bratsman had asked. "Same salary as before?"

That meant a two hundred dollar a week raise for good old Wilmer. The young man hesitated. "Yeah, of course, Boss, but I thought you was in pris—uh, you know, outa circulation for a while yet."

"Got a pardon," Bratsman said. "I got friends in high places now. Listen, kid, here's what I want you to do."

It wasn't all that difficult, and it only required that Wilmer use his own money to buy himself a bus ticket to a little spot in West Los Angeles. It was within two miles of the Nokov Recording Studios, where once Sev'ral Timez had laid down tracks, but it wasn't even an apartment, just a garage built like a fortress. Bratsman told Wilmer the code for the keypad and warned him to buy a nine-volt battery, since the opener might have run out of juice.

Wilmer did, but the opener worked after all, the heavy lock clacked, the steel door groaned on its hinges, and he let himself into a dim, dusty room, slamming and locking the side door behind him as the overhead lights flickered on. One of Bratsman's cars, a yellow 2011 Lexus ES 350, occupied a lot of the floor space. It had been shrouded with a huge dust cloth, and except for four squashy tires—not completely flat, but low on air—it looked ready to go. He found the key and fob where Bratsman told him to look, in the middle drawer of a tall tool cabinet.

Wilmer followed Bratsman's instructions. He found an air compressor and against the back wall of the garage, a rack of a dozen five-gallon gasoline containers. He used the compressor to pump up the tires. He took the gasoline container from the end of the rack and glugged most of it into the car's tank. He also took the two middle gas containers and stowed them in the trunk. They were heavy, though they didn't feel as though they contained gas. If you looked really close, they kind of appeared to have been sawed in half and then carefully put back together at some point in their history.

Wilmer found the title to the car in the tool chest. He put it in the glove compartment. He drove the car to an address that Bratsman had given him, walked in, and in half an hour walked out again with proof that the Lexus was fully insured for the next year. Armed with the old license receipt, title, and proof of insurance, he visited a DMV office and after a two-hour wait, scored a new license plate for the vehicle. He put it on in the parking lot and then the car was street-legal.

Then he found a gas station, filled the tank, and at four in the afternoon, set off on the long drive north to Oregon. His meager savings from his crummy job had run out with the bus ticket and the eating and incidental expenses on the way south. However, he had enough left to stop at a hardware store and buy a linoleum knife. Then he was able to park in a secluded spot, take one of the gas containers from the trunk, and slice its bottom panel open, carefully.

The fuel it contained was stacks of fifty-dollar bills, bound in paper labels that held a hundred bills in a bundle. That was a lot more than enough to get him through his nearly thousand-mile trip back to Oregon.

That first night he drove for more than nine hours, including time lost stopping for two burger meals. He called Bratsman's number close to two in the morning. "Boss, sorry to wake you up and all, but I'm real tired and scared I'm too sleepy to drive any more tonight. You want I should pull over somewheres and sleep in the car or what?"

"Where are you?" Bratsman demanded.

"Just south of Reno."

Bratsman sounded annoyed: "Why'd you take that route?"

Wilmer couldn't keep the whine from creeping into his voice: "Well, I ain't used to drivin' a nice car, Boss. You know I gotta drive slow, under the speed limit, and be careful about lane changes and so on, 'cause I don't want police attention, and until I get my feel for driving back again, I kinda want to avoid the heavy-traffic Interstates."

"OK, let me think. Reno. You bust into the gas can like I told you?"

"Oh, yeah, Boss. I got five grand out, but I spent like a hundred on gas already and twelve, fifteen on meals."

"Right. Wilmer, listen carefully: You remember the High Sierra Resort? Where I used to stay when you were a roadie?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so. On the river, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, so here's what you do—go there, check in—it'll be about two, three hundred for one night, that's all right—and tell them at the check-in kiosk you want a space in the security lot for the car. Slip the attendant a fifty to let you park it instead of a valet, got it? Park it right under a light. Be sure the car's locked up. Be sure the anti-theft system's turned on. Then go to your room, get some sleep, have yourself a good breakfast tomorrow morning, and drive straight on up. Be here before five tomorrow afternoon. I don't want to spend another day in this dump."

"Gotcha, Boss."

That was how it worked out. Wilmer picked Bratsman up and drove him to Portland, where he first went clothes shopping for both of them and then arranged for Wilmer to rent a small house near the post office closest to the mail drop where any letters for him would be forwarded. Bratsman spent a little time calling up old contacts and then checking online—he had bought himself a laptop—to see what was up with Sev'ral Timez.

They had been his babies. Literally. He had cloned them from a leading star of a boy band, really hot in the early nineties. And then he cloned the clones. He could grow them quickly to adulthood in their special clone containers, educating them by piping in language and music and dancing lessons. It was a sweet deal while it lasted, and it had lasted for about five years. They were so lucrative that Bratsman dropped his other acts, one by one.

And he could have gotten away with it for enough years to retire rich if it hadn't been for those meddling girls!

He also dimly remembered the name of the place where the damn goat had eaten his license plate—the Mystery Shack. He had even found online the Ghost Harassers show that featured the Shack—and that included a brief interview with Mabel Pines.

She was older, sure, but something told him she had to be behind his downfall. Easy enough to check.

Oh, yeah. Back in 2012, she had been President of the Piedmont, CA, chapter of the Sev'ral Timez fan club.

He couldn't access the records for the ill-fated Gravity Falls concert that year, but he did pick up enough clues to tell him that Mabel was staying that summer at the Mystery Shack—and the Ghost Harassers show told him she was still there. No doubt in 2012 she had been part of the screaming audience that had relished even a second-rate performance from his guys. And this was how she repaid him!

He imagined all sorts of rosy scenarios—Mabel tied to a chair, him gloating, she begging, "What do you want from me?"

And he'd tell her, "I want my boys back!"

And he'd laugh. He was practicing his _mwah-ha-ha._

But Ergman Bratsman was nobody's fool. He knew he would need help. And he knew it would have to be more help than Wilmer was capable of rendering.

So in the little house—two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen-dinette, a living room, a garage, that was all—he decided that he'd try something he'd done once before, when he needed the scientific knowledge to set up a cloning laboratory.

One night in August he sent Wilmer off on an all-night journey, a fool's errand, really, for no reason other than to get him out of the house.

And then in the living room he rolled up the carpet and traced a circle on the floor with chalk.

Thirteen black candles on the periphery.

Then Bratsman knelt just outside the circle and chanted an incantation.

"You again?" asked the bored-looking demon who materialized inside the mystic circle. "I thought we'd done our deal."

"Yes, and I delivered lots of sins, didn't I?" Bratsman demanded. "Wrath! Girls fighting other girls over which one loved my boys the best! Smart guys scalping tickets, there's greed right there. And I don't even need to mention Lust, do I?"

"You got your clones," the demon said. "You were lucky that was all you wanted. Anything serious would have cost you—"

"My soul," Bratsman said. "Let's talk."

The demon smiled with a mouthful of shark's teeth. "This," he said, "just got interesting."


	5. Chapter 5

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**5: The Voice of Rage and Ruin**

"What in the name of Heaven!" muttered Sallie Corduroy, swinging her thin legs out of bed. It sounded like all hell had broken loose out in the farmyard. "I'm coming! What is it, a fox?"

She grabbed the shotgun from its rack over the bedroom door, yanked open the top bureau drawer with her free hand, and from a handy compartmented bin scooped up two twelve-gauge shells, one yellow, one red—the yellow loaded with four hundred painful pellets of birdshot, the red with nine lethal pellets of 00 buckshot.

She slipped her feet into the indestructible Crocs she wore when having to hurry outside and clapped a red Corduroy Forest Products baseball cap on her head, thumbing on the LED light clipped to the brim. She also flipped the three switches that turned on all the exterior lights of the farm, including the big quad 300-watt barnyard lights mounted on a pole.

When she stepped down into the backyard, she realized that the uproar was coming from—well, from just about all the animals, but most particularly from the pigsty, the epicenter of the soundquake. "Shoo, varmints!" she yelled at top volume, momentarily silencing even the pigs. If it was a fox or a coyote, generally the approach of a shouting human sent it scuttling for cover. If it was a bear, and if it didn't spook and run, she'd pull the rear trigger of the double-barreled shotgun when she was too close to miss, and the buckshot would take care of the situation.

She turned on the light in the pigsty—not as bright as the big outside lights, but in its yellow glare she saw Widdles and Waddles standing crowded into a corner, their backs up, squealing frantically. They ran to her and nudged her outside. Waddles especially was agitated, almost crazy with fear. Sallie made sure nothing was in the sty with them. Then she walked back to the house, the pigs accompanying and jostling her.

"What's got into you two?" she asked. They walked up the steps onto the back porch. They would have come in with her if she'd let them, but she had a mild prejudice against allowing two huge porkers into her dining room. She stood in the doorway and asked, "Is it Mabel?"

Waddles practically screamed.

"Is Mabel in the well again?" Sallie asked. "No, no time for jokes. You want me to call Mabel?"

The pigs immediately ceased their squealing. Waddles tilted his head puppy-fashion and gave one peculiar, imploring bark. Then both pigs stared at her, as though pleading. The chickens and other animals ceased their caterwauling.

The silence was eloquent.

"You wait right here," she said.

_Any other sane woman would call me a damn fool. But I came from Gravity Falls, and I know what's what, and I'm a goddam Corduroy._

Still nestling the shotgun in the crook of her left arm, Sallie came back outside onto the porch with the cordless phone from the kitchen. "I'm calling her," she said. She sat down on the edge of the porch, her heels resting on the second step from the top, the shotgun beside her in easy reach. "Don't cover up the gun, you two," she said. "Lord have mercy, it's twelve-oh-five in the morning."

She punched in Mabel's number from memory.

* * *

Mabel was dreaming of Mrs. Pepper, her beloved art teacher from high school. Somehow, she was there, though she had died years before, and in her gentle, supportive voice she was counseling Mabel: "Do everything slowly and deliberately. You can't rush through with the idea of fixing it up later. One small, careful step at a time gets you there."

In the dream Mabel had to finish some vast and important work of art—she couldn't see it clearly and didn't know what it was, mural or monumental sculpture or something different, but it was so huge it daunted her. "It'll take forever!" she complained. "Isn't there a shortcut?"

Mrs. Pepper smiled. "I never found one."

And then the phone woke her up. "Whattamatta?" she muttered. "Who's that?" She fumbled around on her nightstand, located her phone on the charging pad, and blearily turned on the bedside light. "Hello, um, I'm asleep."

"Then wake up," came a crisp voice she immediately recognized.

Tripper, who always slept on the foot of Mabel's bed, came up and leaned against her, shivering. She put an arm over him and stroked his head.

"Aunt Sallie?" she woke all over, as though someone had thrown cold water on her. "What's the matter? Is it Waddles or—"

"Yes and no. No, stop, don't fire off all your questions at once, Mabel. The pigs are all right. But they woke me up, bawling like I've never heard them before. I'm settin' on my back porch with them right now. Here, I'm putting you on speaker. Say hey to them."

"Waddles! Widdles! What's the matter?" Mabel asked, sitting with her back against the headboard and her knees drawn up.

The two pigs began to vocalize urgently, not the terrified squeals that had awakened Sallie, but the grunting, normal communication of pig to pig. They didn't sound frightened, but—concerned. Worried.

"Hey, I'm OK," Mabel said. "Waddles, calm down. Widdles, it's OK. Nothing's happened." Tripper whined.

"I'm not so sure of that," Sallie said in a grim voice. "Something's happened, all right. Pity they can't tell us what."

"Maybe—maybe they just had a nightmare."

"Don't think so. Seen this before. Back in March of 1980. My husband and I had been married about five years then. I was about twenty-five, twenty-six, I guess. We lived in town then—Bell was a banker and investor, but already semi-retired, though he wasn't yet forty. Anyway, we had these two dogs, Rufus and Lady. Bell went hunting with them every fall—hound dogs, big, but so sweet-natured that they had the run of the house. I remember I was cooking lunch—Bell always came home from the bank for lunch—and all of a sudden, the dogs started to howl. They tried to push me out of the kitchen and out of the house. I got mad and called them fool dogs and just about then Bell came walking home and wanted to know what the matter was. Then we felt it."

"What?"

"Earthquake. Not a big one. But Bell stayed home instead of going back to the bank. And before too awful long, the sunshine got a weird cast to it. Looking to the north, we could see a cloud like none we had ever spotted, and we finally turned on the television. A couple minutes after the dogs had started to devil me and try to shove me out the door, up in Washington Mount St. Helens had blown its top. Next day, the car was dusted with gritty ash. Somehow the dogs knew. They didn't know the earthquake wouldn't be bad enough to shake the house down, but they knew it was coming and they wanted to get me to safety."

Mabel often visited Aunt Sallie's farm, to spend time with Waddles and Widdles and to touch bases with the flock of Rhode Island Reds, who considered her their commander in chief. She remembered seeing pictures of Mr. Bellone, Sallie's husband—a man who made lots of money early and retired while he still had some years left to enjoy married life. He had passed away in 1999, and Sallie had never even considered remarrying.

Now, Mabel knew that Aunt Sallie had a touch of strangeness about her. She claimed to get occasional glimpses of the future. About the first time she had met Dipper, she had told Wendy to hang onto him because he was the one.

And aside from her gift of foresight, Aunt Sallie was special. Though she prided herself on running her farm, she rarely butchered an animal—she said she got to know them too well, listened to their gossip, helped them give birth and care for their young, and couldn't raise her hand against them.

So she mainly raised vegetables, and though she sold them along with milk and eggs, she really had no need of the income but did it because, well, she was a farmer. And a blamed good one, if she did say so herself. Among her gifts was a bond with the animals, and an implicit trust in their instincts. If she thought Waddles and Widdles were concerned about Mabel—well, Mabel had better look out.

"What's coming, Aunt Sallie?" Mabel asked.

"Don't know, child," Sallie said. "But you best be prepared. Tell your brother and tell Wendy, too. And don't take chances. Keep yourself safe, you hear?"

"I'll try. Am I still on your speaker?"

"Yep."

"Listen, Waddles. You too, Widdles. You keep Aunt Sallie safe, OK? Tomorrow after the Shack closes, Teek and I will come up to see you. Thanks for the warning, but you be safe, too. I couldn't stand it if anything bad happened to you."'

The pig grunts somehow had the tone of comforting her, like relatives assuring one another that now it was all right, that now nothing would happen.

Of course, relatives probably did that with each other back in 1980, too, in Washington State, near the dormant volcano of Mount St. Helens.

And back then, fifty-seven people had died.

* * *

"Pigs?" Dipper asked groggily. "Um—why?"

It was half-past midnight. Wendy and Mabel had come up to the attic, and all three of them, plus the dog Tripper, sat on Dipper's bed. "I don't know why," Mabel said. "Waddles and Widdles are real intuitive, but they can't talk."

"How about you, boy?" Dipper asked Tripper. "Is something happening?"

Tripper wrinkled his forehead as if thinking it over. He whined, then pawed the bed once. In their code that meant "Yes."

"Do you know what it is?" Mabel asked.

Two taps of his paw. No.

"Are we in danger?" Wendy asked.

Two slow, reluctant taps.

"Does that mean," asked Mabel, "that we're not in immediate danger, but we might be before long?"

One tap.

"This is like talking to a Magic 8-Ball," Dipper said. He went out and returned with Tripper's toy box, from which he took the set of alphabet blocks—a double set, in fact. "Can you tell us anything at all?" Dipper asked the dog. "Any clue about why Mabel's pigs were afraid?"

Tripper hopped off the bed and nosed among the blocks, picking up some and setting them down in a ragged line. They read OLD FEO. The dog could recognize letters, but he had a hard time with vowel placement.

"Old foe?" Dipper asked. "Do you know who?"

Two paw-taps on the floor. "No," Mabel said. "Where is this person?"

More thinking, and then Tripper spelled out HER CLOSE.

"Her clothes?" Dipper asked. Tripper gave him an eye-roll. Then he picked up the E from CLOSE and moved it: HERE CLOS.

"Aw, you need more E's," Mabel said. "Here close, right?"

Tripper yipped once. Yes.

"Don't bark," Dipper said. "We don't want to wake everybody up. Listen, can you tell us anything? Is this a man or a woman?"

More blocks: DON'T KNWO.

"How close?" Wendy asked. "Here in the Shack?"

Two negative paw-taps.

"In town?" asked Mabel. "Somewhere in Gravity Falls?"

Tipper seemed to think that over for a long time. Then: MYABE.

Mabel said, "If you go with me up to Aunt Sallie's, can you translate anything that Waddles or Widdles might know? If we take the blocks?"

Tripper turned in a circle, head down. Then he put a paw on the "maybe" message.

"It's something to try," Wendy said. "Look, it's getting on toward one in the morning. We ought to get some sleep. Mabel, whyn't you and Tripper bunk in with me tonight? I'll put my axe beside the bed. We'll be ready for whatever."

"Maybe Dipper ought to come too," Mabel said. "He could be in danger."

Tripper yipped, softly. Then he tapped the floor with his paw.

Once. Twice.

Which meant "no."

They all looked at each other, with sick expressions.

An old foe. Danger.

And the warning was just for Mabel.


	6. Chapter 6

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**6: The Ritual Has Begun**

"Excellent," the demon said, reading over the document. "Now you just have to sign it here."

Bratsman held out his hand and closed his eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Bratsman opened his eyes. "You need my blood, don't you?"

The demon chuckled. "No, no, no. How old-fashioned you are. No, I need something that means something to you—not blood. Your key fob will do nicely."

"My—my key fob?" Bratsman asked, blinking. He reached into his pocket—difficult, because his trousers were always too tight on his three-hundred-pound-frame—and pulled out a set of keys attached to a circular gold fob. "This was my great-grandfather's," he said almost meekly.

"And now it is yours," the demon said. He pointed a long, clawed finger, and the key fob floated in the air. Its centerpiece, a gold coin, gleamed as it turned. Then the keys and chain dropped to the floor, landing just outside the magic circle, and the gold coin spun in the air, faster and faster.

"That's a 1907 Saint-Gaudens twenty-dollar gold piece," Bratsman muttered. "It's worth—"

Well, it was worth whatever gold it held at the moment, because it turned into a liquid blob. The demon produced from mid-air a black quill pen, touched the nib to the gold, and the gold got sucked into the pen. Courteously, the demon offered the pen and document to Bratsman. "Sign your name," he said.

Glaring at the demon, Bratsman leaned forward—he was still kneeling—and signed his name on the bottom line, Ergman Bratsman. The letters gleamed at him.

"And now me, on behalf of His Lowness," the demon said suavely. Beneath Bratsman's signature, he wrote in enviably rococo penmanship, _Mammonus Diaboli XXIV._

The parchment mystically duplicated, and Mammonus graciously handed Bratsman the original. "This is your copy. Keep it in a safe place. Photocopies will not be recognized as binding. For security, log into the website there at the top and create an account. Your PIN will need to be at least 13 characters long and should include at least one capital letter, one lower-case letter, one number, and one special symbol. Word of advice, don't use your birthday or Social Security Number in any way, and avoid current addresses, names of pets, and so on. Hackers are devilishly clever these days. Anyway, once you've established your account, record your exclusive contract number—right there, six hundred and sixty-one numerals—and that will register your agreement. For an extra $6.66 a month, you get one terabyte of storage in the Miasma. That's like the Cloud but more unpleasant."

"Now what?" Bratsman asked.

"That is up to you," Mammonus said. "You come up with a plan to gain your desires. We see to it that you have luck at every turn. No need to thank us when you succeed—we'll collect our due from you, eventually."

"Oh. Well. Uh—couldn't I just have done this whole thing on my own, then?"

"Oh, sure, and just take your chances. That was always possible. But not now."

"I don't feel any different."

"Just you wait," Mammonus said with a smile. "Oh, my hell, is that the time? Five past midnight already? Goodbye, and it was infernally delightful doing business with you. If you have any further needs or questions, do hesitate to call."

A roil of fiery red flames and black smoke started at Mammonus's feet—clad in sharp-toed black patent-leather shoes—and billowed up his legs, which wore beautifully tailored dark-gray trousers—and then boiled up his torso—he wore a gray suit with a vest, a pink shirt, and a blazing red tie—and finally engulfed his head.

He looked tanned, sleek, and well-fed, though not nearly as obese as Bratsman. His skin, which was red, was his only really distinguishing feature. Bratsman had done deals with music producers who looked far more devilish than Mammonus.

Once the smoke had cleared, Bratsman began to bawl, "Wilmer! Where the hell are you? Come here, I need you!"

Wilmer had stepped outside. He had decided that he did not like any part of this ritual. He'd missed all the good stuff, but he heard the Boss calling him. "What's the matter?"

"The matter is I can't get up! Bring me my cane—and a chair!"

Wilmer did. Bratsman grasped the cane, put his other hand on the chair, and tried to lever his bulk up from a kneeling position three times before a grunting Wilmer managed to heave him more or less unsteadily to his feet. "There you go."

Bratsman sat on the chair and mopped his jowls with a handkerchief. "Tell me about the boy again."

"Uh—you mean the guy that the girl is dating?"

"No, idiot, I mean Peter Pan!"

"Oh. Uh. I . . . don't think I know anybody of that name," Wilmer apologized.

"The one you followed," Bratsman said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, that ain't Peter Pan, boss. That kid's name is, uh, hang on—" Wilmer fumbled in his pocket for a small notebook. "Here it is. That's Ticknor Keevan O'Grady. Must have goofball parents, huh?"

"What did you find out about him?"

"Oh, right." Wilmer squinted at his printed notes. "Uh, so he works there at the Mystery Shack place, he's like a cook, but he's going off to college somewheres in September. Out of state. I could find out where, if you want. Uh, he's been dating Mabel Pines for three or four years, she wears a ring he gave her. Uh, she started callin' him 'Teek,' and now everybody does, even his parents. His old man's middle-management in Northwest Enterprises, Inc. His mom is a housewife. Uh, he graduated from Gravity Falls High with a 3.7 average."

"Is he engaged to Mabel?"

"Um, I don't think officially? The ring is what they call a promise ring. Kind of a friendship ring, remember those?"

"I never had any friends," Bratsman growled. "All right. Let me think. I need to get my boys back, and the only hold I got over them is Mabel Pines. They like her. She set them—" Bratsman's face grimaced as if the word in his mouth tasted like moose droppings—"_free."_

"Yeah, uh, about that," Wilmer said, "there's two guys in town there related to her. Twins, Stanley Pines and Stanford Pines. They gotta be like sixty years old, but neither one looks it. I mean they look younger, you know? Not more'n fifty, if that. Anyways, Stanley Pines is a justice of the peace and a businessman. Stanford is like a professor or some deal, and he works at a college about ten, fifteen miles from the Valley. They're her, um. Uncles? But not like her dad's brothers, but her grand-dad's? Grand-uncles, I guess? What the point is, they both swing a lot of weight."

Bratsman scowled at his henchman but didn't say anything.

Regarding his boss's orbicular figure, Wilmer swallowed hard. "They're influential, I mean. Seem to have money and friends and all. And I think one of them, the professor, writes books." He held up a paperback entitled, _It Lurked in the Lake._ "It says on the front that it was wrote by Stan X. Mason, but there's places and people in it a lot like ones in Gravity Falls. It's supposed to be in California, but you can tell that Gravity falls inspired it. It's a pretty scary book, by the way. Anyhow, I'm pretty sure it must be the professor guy writing under a pseudopod."

"A what?"

"You know—a pen, uh, a pen cushion. No, that's wrong. A fake name, is what I mean."

Bratsman said, "You're telling me that these guys have too much juice for me to risk something like just snatching the girl."

"Yeah, that's right," Wilmer said.

"So what kind of leverage can we get against Mabel Pines?" Bratsman asked. "Let's find out. And you don't need to worry about great-uncles, Wilmer. I've got some business associates who will help us out."

* * *

Mabel was so antsy the next morning that Soos suggested she drive up to Morris to visit her pigs and then come in to work around ten or eleven. Melody could set up the snack bar, so when Teek got back, all he'd have to do was start cooking.

Wendy went along too, leaving the Shack short-handed, but Stan came up the hill ready and eager to be Mr. Mystery, and Gideon and Ulva were due in at nine. Dipper, somewhat to his annoyance, was left to be chief cashier—"And," Soos said in an obvious effort to cheer him up, "like Deputy Manager, dawg! That's a promotion!"

"Thanks, Soos," Dipper said, mustering a smile. But as he went about his new duties, which were identical to his old duties, he couldn't help worrying about Mabel.

Oh, well. Stan took over the tram tours while Soos made sure the RV that served as the mobile Shack was ready for Woodstick. Both Sheila and Lorena showed up to help, too. And the crowds—oh, Lord, the crowds! Though the festival didn't officially begin until noon, already musicians were busking for spare change downtown and out in the parking lot of the Shack. And a whole different crowd, a younger set ready for the most overpriced fun weekend of the summer, came through the Shack, bought trinkets, and took photos of everything including Dipper. After an hour, he no longer had time to worry about Mabel.

* * *

Wendy drove Helen Wheels, Mabel's car, north toward Morris, while Teek, Tripper, and Mabel sat in the back. "That is weird," Teek said as Mabel wound up her story about the phone call in the middle of the night, about the upset pigs, about Tripper who seemed to share their unease.

They pulled up in the farmyard of Aunt Sallie's house, she came out on the porch dressed for egg-gathering and milking—that is, she wore a flannel shirt, faded old jeans, and boots—and called, "Anybody want breakfast?"

"Already ate," Wendy called back. "Hi, Aunt Sallie! Any more trouble?"

She shook her head. "You look blooming," she told her niece before they hugged.

"Feelin' kind of excited," Wendy said with a grin. "Big day coming up at the end of the month! You're invited, you know. Gonna be real small and private, no more than a dozen guests, probably at the Gravity Falls Courthouse."

"I'll consider it," Aunt Sallie said. "Mabel, you know where your pigs are. I hope you can calm 'em down. I have to take care of the eggs and milk."

A half-dozen big milk cans sat on the back porch, next to wire baskets full of brown eggs. "I'll help," Wendy said. "You guys go on."

Waddles and Widdles had been nosing around their feeding trough for any stray crumbs, but when they noticed Mabel—coming in like a queen with an escort of chickens—they came galumphing over and leaned against her. Tripper yapped at a couple of chickens that wanted to peck his tail. Mabel said in a loud voice, "OK, chickens, go be chickens! Dis-MISSED!"

The hens immediately scattered, scratching and pecking around in the grass, many with little families of scuttling chicks following close on their heel spurs.

Mabel led the pigs over to a low stone fence. She sat on it and took Waddles' head between her hands—she could remember when his whole body wasn't that big—and looking into his eyes, she said, "If you know something that you want to warn me about, tell me. Tripper will listen and try to help us understand, OK?"

Teek set down the box of Tripper's blocks.

The animals made an effort, no one could deny that. Both pigs grunted and gruntled and snorted. Tripper listened intently. And then he tried to interpret, using the blocks.

SOMTHIN BDA.

"Something bad," Mabel said with patience. "What is it?"

EVLI FROCE.

That stumped Teek, but Mabel got it: "Evil force. Evil like a person?"

Tripper patted the earth twice. No.

"Evil like—like Bill Cipher?"

The pigs had a short confabulation with each other. Then they grunted.

YES A LITLE BUT NOT HMI.

"Hello!"

The voice came so unexpectedly that it startled Mabel, who gave a little yip. Both pigs closed in before her, protectively. But then she recognized the newcomer. "Grunkle Ford!"

He wore his favorite old, somewhat tattered long coat over a mulberry turtleneck. A bandolier crossed his chest diagonally, and Mabel realized her gentle Grunkle was armed, probably with a quantum destabilizer pistol. He said, "Mason called me to tell me he was concerned. I just spoke to Wendy and her aunt down at the house. My word, your pigs are enormous!"

"Farm life agrees with them."

The pigs had relaxed. Ford scratched their ears, then patted Tripper. "Well, they seem a little alarmed. I noticed how they were ready to defend you. Any news?"

"As near as we can figure," Mabel said, "the pigs think it's something evil, but not Bill Cipher, but like him."

"Like Cipher but not Cipher," Ford said. "I'm not sure what that means."

"Wurf!" said Tripper.

"Uh-oh," said Teek.

"Oh, no," said Ford.

Mabel flinched. With his blocks, Tripper had spelled out one more word.

DENOM


	7. Chapter 7

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**7: I'll Be Watching You**

The animals couldn't tell them anything more because they didn't know anything more. Wendy and Aunt Sallie together finished up the morning's farm work, and then they sat around the dining table sipping coffee.

Sallie told Ford her story about the dogs and the volcano, and he nodded. "Yes, there are sound reasons to believe that animals can sense things like storms and earthquakes well ahead of humans. I suspect that the largest part of that is due to their better senses—a dog's hearing can detect a low rumble of an earth tremor or a distant thunderclap long before a human's can. But this—this is a different order. I think that animals sometimes can detect intrusions on our reality as well as physical disturbances."

"You mean," Aunt Sallie said, "they can pick up on ghosts and such-like when we can't."

"Precisely," Ford said, and he sipped from his cup. "Very good coffee."

"Thank you. I can see where Dipper resembles you, Dr. Pines—"

"Ford, please, Mrs. Bellone," he said.

"As long as it's 'Aunt Sallie.' And I went back to my maiden name the day we put Bell in his grave. Not that I didn't love him, but I didn't want to fly under false pretenses. I couldn't handle any of the Bellone businesses, so I left that to a very good lawyer, and I went back to farming, which was my first love."

"I understand," Ford said. "Anyway—if there's a demon—if we interpreted Tripper's message correctly—"

"We did," Mabel said with Mabelish assurance. "He's the smartest dog in the world. So what if he gets the letters scrambled now and then? Show me another dog that can even read and write!"

"You have a point," Ford agreed. "Hm. Well, we called Cipher a demon, with considerable justification. And you've told me about the Love God, so there's a precedent for that kind of supernatural intrusion into our reality. My working hypothesis is that the demon is from another reality, possibly a pocket dimension—that's a sort of parasite on our own universe—"

"We got that," Mabel said. "Like this one time we wound up inside an amber-colored crystal ball, right, Teek?"

"That's right," Teek said. "And there were creatures out of storybooks—talking animals, and goblins, even a harem girl—"

"He's not interested in underdressed storytellers," Mabel said, closing that subject, putting it in an iron-bound box, wrapping it with chains, and dropping it into the nearest active volcano. "But, yeah, I get what you're saying, Grunkle Ford. Bill Cipher was from one of those pocket places, right?"

"Technically, no," Ford said. "He was stranded in the Nightmare Realm. That really isn't a dimension per se, but a chaos, a kind of—of interdimensional foam. Any dimension that has the capability seems to have dumped its worst criminals there—"

"The Phantom Zone," Teek said. "Like in Superman."

"I . . . suppose," Ford, who had been a reader of science-fiction magazines but not of comics, said. "Anyway, Cipher spent literally eons trapped there. His nature was . . . destructive. When he managed to break through into our dimension, his one goal was to conquer Earth and then spread out to all reality, warping our universe to his own whims. That's close enough to a conventional demon to let us call him that."

"So . . . you think this new demon, whatever it is, is one of Bill Cipher's followers?" Wendy asked.

Ford shook his head. "No, I'm not saying that. But it's entirely within the realm of possibility that it's from a hellish pocket universe grafted onto our own. And it's possible that Gravity Falls is one of the few areas on Earth where it could travel to our reality. Aunt Sallie, you may not realize how odd Gravity Falls is."

Aunt Sallie snorted like Widdles. "You're not telling me anything new, Ford! I came from there. My little brother still lives there. I could tell you stories of trees that get up in the dark of night and go for walks. There's a certain very old tree that Danny wouldn't sink an axe into if you held him at gunpoint. Somebody tried it once, and the cut in the tree bled. I mean not sap, but human-like blood! And it screamed. And the next day, the logger's left foot fell off. Stumpy Garnon, they got to calling him. Danny saw it when he was, oh, thirteen, fourteen years old, and he told me about it. You don't have to persuade me that Gravity Falls can be one weird place."

"What do we do to keep Mabel safe?" Teek asked.

Ford tried to take another sip of coffee, but he had drained his cup. Aunt Sallie got up and poured him another half-cup, and he nodded his thanks. "I will do some research this morning, T.K. However, I can suggest some things to try right off the bat. Mabel, would you object to wearing a—well, call it an amulet? I have a small collection that may help to armor you against evil forces."

"Depends," Mabel said. "If it doesn't match my clothes, can I wear it inside my collar?"

"Of course," Ford said. "There are also prayers and counter-spells against evil. We need to return home, though, so I can start my research. What are your plans for the day, Mabel?"

"Work in the Shack until four, and then Teek and me are goin' to Woodstick."

"I'm not sure I'd recommend that," Ford said. "When one is being pursued, there's something to be said for hiding out in a crowd, but if the pursuer is a being with supernatural abilities, that might be the worst thing to do."

"Grunkle Ford!" Mabel said. "I'm not hiding out in any crowd! The reason I want to go to Woodstick is to go to Woodstick! Music! Dancing! Fun times!"

"I'll stay right beside her the whole time," Teek promised. "And I—I'll borrow my grandmother's rosary. And if you've got something you want me to take, holy water or anything—I'll take those too."

Tripper, under the table, barked.

Ford glanced down. "Will you go and protect Mabel, too?"

Tripper barked once, just a single yip.

"He's saying yes," Wendy interpreted.

"Well—four o'clock, you say? Let's say this: I'll do my research, and if I find any compelling reason to think you're in immediate danger, you'll stay away from the festival. But if I can't, then you may go, provided you arm yourself with appropriate anti-demonic paraphernalia."

"I don't know what that means, but I'm on board one thousand per cent," Mabel said. With Teek and Tripper watching my back, I shouldn't have a thing to worry about!"

* * *

Ergman Bratsman, disguised as well as a short, round man could be with sunglasses, a hairpiece, a fake beard and mustache, and a flashy yellow and white jumpsuit—think older Elvis, if Elvis had been twice as overweight as he was—hovered in the crowd near the entrance to the festival grounds, along with groupies.

From the top of a ridge that formed a sort of natural amphitheater, he could see the stage, though at a bad angle, and part of the backstage area. That was mostly an expansive parking lot jammed with RVs, dressing room and green room all in one. He wasn't sure, but he could see a large RV about in the middle of the pack, and on its side he could partially make out a logo that just might be an updated Sev'ral Timez trademark.

By late in the afternoon, he still had caught no glimpse at all of the five clone brothers.

On one hand, Bratsman looked so totally outlandish—fat, bearded guy in a rug and a cowboy hat, wearing a mustard-yellow fringed jumpsuit with rhinestones and tassels—that in any sane circumstances he would have been arrested by the fashion police.

However, this was Woodstick, where it was not unknown for a fanatic group of female music lovers to show up wearing only G-strings and body paint. Where the Handlebar Bros., a kind of avant-garde barbershop trio, braided the ends of their luxuriant mustaches together and went everywhere as a unit—though, since they were all married to different wives, presumably off stage they could go their separate ways, one hopes. Where Wood Grain on Everything, another band, not only wore clothes in red-oak woodgrain patterns but had even had their bodies (or at least the parts visible during normal social occasions) tattooed to match.

In other words, Bratsman didn't particularly stand out from the crowd.

Then, too—luck was on his side. Evil luck.

Mind, that doesn't mean _bad _luck. It was the kind of luck that made Deputy Durland, whose suspicions had been aroused because he'd noticed Bratsman tucking a loose flap of his mustache back in place, as if the spirit gum beneath had been sweated off, approached him.

Durland was within three steps of Bratsman, Taser at the ready, just in case, when someone not far away screamed "Pi-i-gs!"

"Who said that?" Durland said, spinning on his heel, fury in his eye, ready to take extreme umbrage against this insult to the Police Department and its heroes.

He shouldered through the crowd, away from Bratsman. It turned out that the guy yelling was a pitchman at one of the huckster booths. He'd attracted a small crowd and was holding aloft the merch he was pushing, the Huggy Wuggy Tummy Bundle. "It works for PI-I-I-GS!" the pitchman screamed.

Durland said, "You hush up! You're disturbing the peace!"

"I'm only selling people this fine accessory!" the bearded pitchman yelled back. "It lets you carry up to ten babies! And it also works for PI-I-I-GS!"

"Well, sell it quieter!" Durland ordered. He brandished his Taser. "You know what this is? It can incapaci—it can stun somebody who's cuttin' up! You want me to prove it?"

"Yes!" said the salesman.

"Well, look at this!" Defiantly, Durland put the contacts against his own head and pulled the trigger. For about a minute he was completely out of it, and when he came to, the salesman was gone, but Durland was fifty dollars poorer and had a Huggy Wuggy Tummy Bundle strapped to his abdomen. And a business card from Bobby Renzobbi tucked in his pocket.

"I did that," said a skinny, languorous man slouching next to Bratsman. "Just part of the service."

Bratsman glared at the stranger. Even in the heat he wore a Navy-blue three-piece suit. He also wore heavy wraparound dark sunglasses and a medium-heavy tan. His black hair was quite long—he was obviously a show-biz type. He stood as if he were leaning against something—which he wasn't—with both hands in his trouser pockets.

"Did what?" Bratsman asked.

"Warded off the policemen," the stranger said with a yawn. "Don't you recognize me? We have a business agreement."

Bratsman started and nervously looked for a means of retreat.

"Don't worry, I don't bite," the stranger said, smiling. Just for a moment his smile turned into the warm greeting of a bull shark, a mouthful of daggers.

"You're not inside the magic circle!" Bratsman whispered.

"Nor are you on your knees. Luck, remember? I guaranteed you would have it. That was just a small fragment of it. I came here to grant you your second most fervent wish. The time is four-seventeen in the afternoon. And if you will look at the VIP entrance, in three seconds you will see—"

Bratsman had never seen her in person, only in photos, but a tall, pretty, brown-haired girl had just walked through the gate arm-in-arm with a thin, tall, and nervous-looking teen boy. The girl wore ripped jeans and a short rainbow top that left her navel exposed. The boy, black-haired and gazing around as though he was near-sighted, though he didn't wear glasses, looked much duller—worn but not torn jeans, sneakers, and a tee shirt that—

"Those are my boys!" said Bratsman.

"That is an image of them on T.K. O'Grady's tee shirt," Mammonus said smoothly. "But the girl, Bratsman—look at her. She's the one. That is Mabel Pines."

And not far behind them crept Wilmer, rigged out in an open denim vest over his chicken chest, crisscrossed with gold chains, as inconspicuous as a black widow spider on a slice of angel-food cake.

"Don't worry," Mammonus said. "I've put a shield on him. He's not invisible, but a second after seeing him, people forget all about him."

"She's got a dog!" Bratsman said, noticing Tripper, a light brown, short-haired, smallish dog looking a bit like a miniature German shepherd. "It's not even on a leash!"

"Yes," purred Mammonus. "I can't quite grasp the dog's being here. It's unusual. I'd advise you to avoid the dog."

"I want to get that girl!"

"I know you do, my dear fellow." Mammonus sniffed the air. "There's a faint stench of goodness around. I hope you haven't given away the game, Bratsman. Unless you have, as they say, fouled up, don't worry. You shall have the girl, and the group."

"But what if I don't get them?"

"Oh," Mammonus said with another predatory smile, "we'll dig that grave when we come to it."


	8. Chapter 8

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**8: Baby, You're No Good**

OK, let's tell the truth here: the guy was an addict.

That's all there was to it. It was a habit he couldn't kick—no, scratch that. It was a habit that he couldn't bear to kick. No, not right, either. It was a habit he didn't _want_ to kick.

Here he was, four billion years old, give or take (sometimes he claimed his birthday was in November rather than early October, just to shave a month off). He should be looking forward to an eternity of relaxing in the fellowship of great souls and angels.

Only—well, harp music. Yuck.

When he was away from Earth, the cherub missed the wicked snarl of an electric guitar cranked up to eleven. And the backbeat that resonated in your teeth. And most of all—the feel of a microphone in his hand, shouting his lyrics until his throat went raw. Oh, baby, that's what he liked!

On the other hand, he _was_ a married man. Married entity, to be more exact. And he loved her, oh yes, he loved her. A love like theirs would never die. Literally.

Those first years, man, they had been the roughest. He'd had just one look, that was all it took, and he flipped heels over head for that girl. Whirlwind romance, a wedding that amounted to an elopement, and then, well, they'd had to run, run, run, run, run away to escape family complications. Not from her family so much, not in the beginning, but from his.

His mum, to be specific. He knew that come hell or high water, his mum would never ever in a million years approve of the match. If only. If she'd only let them alone, they could have a happy home. But, be fair, eventually his bride's spiteful sisters had it in for them, too. In fact, they were the ones who'd poisoned her mind—"You never see him because he only visits you in the dark!" "He must be a monster!" "He's a beast! You're a beauty, and you married a beast!"

So OK, admittedly the furniture and household items did have a life of their own, and he kept her isolated from the world and human company, for her own protection, but he _wasn't _a beast. Maybe he could afford to watch his diet a little closer, but he was no beast. Not by a long shot. Ask his groupies, they'd tell you.

And then in the Stygian dark of one midnight hour, she'd wakened him in an unpleasant way, by spilling hot oil on his naked . . . shoulder, people so often got that part wrong. And when SHE knew who HE was, his MOM immediately knew who SHE was, and so, grieving at heart, he'd split with his wife. A goddess against a mortal? Though breaking up is hard to do, they had to break up so Psyche wouldn't die of Venus envy. Because once Venus knew that Cupid had a mortal wife—oh, she's got it, yeah, baby, she's got it. She's got it in for Psyche, that is.

So being cruel to be kind to the woman he loved, Cupid deserted Psyche, though his heart felt as if an arrow had pierced it. And that would have been the end of it.

Except she loved him.

Now, when a man loves a woman, he can't keep his mind on nothing else. But when a woman loves a man the way she loved him—well, it's unconditional. She will love him unconditionally. Her love is deep, it's nirvana. It's inevitable, just like a river flows surely to the sea.

And in the end, Psyche threw down with Mum. It made Cupid's brown eyes blue just to think of the extraordinary sacrifices his wife had made.

Psyche made an impossible grueling trek just to reach Venus and speak to her, to plead her case. And Mum said, OK, sure, you think you're in love, you crazy kid, but I say love's just a second-hand emotion. Tell you what, let's test you.

And one thing about Mum, who after all _loved_ lovers, she could prepare a test like nobody else. No "number two pencil," no "don't turn the paper over until I tell you to start" stuff, no, she made up tests like—like sorting out a mountain of barley, millet, and poppy seeds mixed in with peas and beans and sorting every single seed into its proper pile, all between sunset and sunrise of the next day! And like bringing back a hank of wool from a vicious killer sheep that just happened to have a golden fleece! And add in "fetch me a full glass of water from the Styx, dear, I'm a little thirsty." And if the borderland of the Underworld weren't bad enough—"Go borrow a jar of Persephone's special beauty cream, the type that tightens, softens, and smooths."

Well. Psyche climbed every mountain, forded every stream, and completed every damn test. He was so proud, thinking of that.

Even Venus had to give up in the end. Psyche got her blessing and a field promotion to minor goddess, immortality included. And if Cupid's heart had not been full of love before, well, now, buddy, it was an eternal fountain. He would love her until the end of the world, and then the day after, the two of them would . . . would simply fly away!

You can't not love the most beautiful woman in the world, not after she's been to hell and back for you.

Literally.

He still, after all those eons, loved her more than he loved eternal life itself. But—the other woman in his life was rock'n'roll. And he loved rock'n'roll! Just put another dime in the jukebox, baby!

Well—let's say he was _addicted _to rock'n'roll, anyhow. Even when he was home, with Psyche sweetly in his arms, secretly he couldn't wait to get back on the road again.

Because she loved him, she endured those absences. All the time he was away, he knew in his hart that if it took forever, she would wait for him

Because he loved her, he'd cut down to one gig a year.

Woodstick, yeah!

And of late years, he'd cleaned up his act a bit. He'd lost forty pounds, though he still admittedly had those adorable chubby cheeks. Fewer onion rings and milkshakes, more healthy ambrosia and nectar (the low-fat, unsweetened variety, though). He could once again fly without gasping and grunting, his tiny wings now up to the task of transporting his weight.

Mostly he'd given up live performances. Except that one weekend in August. Because he couldn't stop. On stage, dancing, prancing, singing into that microphone, baby, that was when Love God felt most alive! And Psyche waited at home, and when he got back, he'd spend like a month telling her stories about this tour, and she'd listen, smiling and laughing, and their love would be even stronger than before, if that's possible.

That Friday morning, relaxing in his RV, leaning back, legs kicked up, bare heels resting on a countertop, his oldest guitar (a genuine Belchior Diaz, ten strings, lute frets), he strummed out his latest melody and softly sang the lyrics (no use straining his vocal cords before the show began):

* * *

Baby, you know me, you know me so well,

Baby, I'm sorry I put you through hell,

Our families both hate us and keep us apart,

But how can I part with one half of my heart?

* * *

OK, so it wasn't the Love God's patented hard rock, but more of a rockabilly ballad. You had to stretch yourself, man, try new waters. After all, a musician is like a shark, baby, gotta keep moving artistically or the gills stop working, am I right?

He fiddled, or guitared, with phrasing. The song pleased him overall—it had the earmarks of a hit, if he could connect with . . . what was that? . . . with the right . . . audience . . ..

"Oh, hell!" growled Love God, setting the precious four hundred and twenty-year-old guitar aside and swinging his feet down and slipping them into their sandals as another disturbance in Reality twanged his nerves. "Not now! Not him! Not here!"

He pulled on his cut-offs—he had been wearing only his undershorts, the Helen brand that Paris's old lady hawked on her show—and then a baggy sweatshirt and stepped outside. In the RV lot behind the stage, music drifted like cooking smoke from a hundred different vehicles. Love God sniffed the air.

It was full of human aromas—breakfast being cooked or delivered, mixed with car exhaust, real smoke, and, um, the _other _kind of smoke, the one he'd promised Psyche to swear off because it made him so hungry and that made him fat—

But, yeah, under the human scent of teen spirit, there it was, a definite whiff of brimstone.

Love God darted his gaze all around. Nobody was in eyeshot. He closed his eyes and concentrated, and his ears popped.

He opened his eyes. "Come for the show?" he asked with sarcasm dripping from the words like Mountie Man genuine imitation maple syrup off a stack of fluffy pancakes.

For a moment he didn't quite know where he was geographically, but then he grasped that the two of them were high atop a grassy rounded hill that commanded a grand view of the eastward Valley. There sprawled the town, like the layout for an insanely meticulous devotee's model-railroad setup, and just off there, toward the lake, was the festival clearing and the growing crowd where Woodstick would happen, baby!

"I thought I sensed a heavenly influence," said the other figure. "Sort of putrid, really." He reclined in a lawn chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles. "You're looking well."

"You look like a music promoter," Love God said. "What are you up to, Mammy?"

Mammonus winced. "Please don't call me that. I hate that nickname."

"If you promise not to call me Stupid."

"All right, all right, take a load off." Mammonus snapped his fingers, and another lawn chair materialized next to his own. "Sit down, I won't bite."

Love God eased into the lawn chair. It would be just like the demon to conjure up a trick one that would fold up on him, but this one didn't. It felt sturdy and surprisingly comfortable, for a lawn chair. Love God crossed his hands and interlaced his fingers atop his smaller pot belly. "What are you doing here, Mammonus?"

"We're five miles from downtown Gravity Falls, I have no car, so I don't need gas, I've given up cigarettes, and I'm wearing these," the demon said, adjusting his sunglasses. "I'm on a mission from not-God."

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd be the type to take in a show," Love God said. "How have you been lately? It's been a while."

Mammonus put his sunglasses back in place. "What's it been, two centuries? Three?"

"July 1780," Love God said sourly. "You know that. The Arnold affair."

"Yes, good old Benny," Mammonus murmured with a smile. "Dark Lord, that was fun!"

"For _you_, maybe," Love God said.

"You helped," Mammonus said.

"I never did!" snapped Love God. "I mean, I didn't know that Peggy would talk Benedict into accepting a British bribe! I was just helping love along when I—"

"Helping treachery along, too," said Mammonus. "The road to my place is paved with unintended consequences. Not your fault, Mr. C. Benny wasn't really capable of loving a mere woman when there was so much gold around to embrace."

"I suppose your bunch has him now," said Love God.

"We have both of them. Peggy and Benny. They have a lovely bedroom, decorated in the finest of taste, all to themselves, forever. No doors or windows, naturally. They can't ever leave it, of course. There's no exit."

"Hell is other people," said Love God. "I've read Sartre."

"Oh, we got him, too," said Mammonus. "Was he ever surprised!"

Love God sighed. "Why are you here, Mammy?"

"Please."

"Tell me and I'll stop."

Mammonus sighed. "As I said, I have a mission. You see that space down there with all the chariots—"

"Cars," Love God corrected. "Cars and vans and RVs. You know this."

"Humans and their progress," said Mammonus. "It's difficult to keep track. Well, anyway, that whole area is given over to—you won't believe it—to the celebration of—"

"Music," Love God said. "Yes, I do believe it. Music was one of our inventions, you know. Fine thing, music. Best your bunch has come up with is Muzak."

"In certain areas of hell, 'The Girl from Ipanema' plays on an endless loop," said Mammonus with an evil chuckle. "Oh, yes, the Muses, hence the word music. I do recall. Which one of those ladies created it? Calliope was it? I remember her. Hot-tempered. Always blowing off steam."

"It wasn't Calliope, it was Euterpe," Love God said. "And you're dodging. Look, we've been enemies—"

Mammonus lowered his sunglasses and looked over the rims, giving Love God a hurt glance with beautiful eyes the exact color of molten gold. Except the pupils were vertical black slits. "Come, come. I haven't regarded you as an enemy for ages. Not since that whole business with Menelaus and his wife."

"Yeah, I really dropped the ball on that," Love God said.

Mammonus raised a languid, dismissive hand. "No, be honest. Your mother did."

"Don't talk about my mother! Anyhow—_you_ helped get her and him back together."

Mammonus shrugged. "Least I could do after she lost her lover. There are at least fifty ways of doing that, but having your lover converted into a pincushion for Greek arrows must rank right down around the bottom."

Love God moved his hands behind his head and stared up at the cloudless sky. "I forget, did your people or ours wind up with Paris?"

"The city or the prince?"

Love God gave Mammonus a sideways oh-come-on glance. "The prince. I _know_ you have the city."

"Mmm, dunno, I'd have to check. Anyway, I regard you as a friend all of whose associates I politely detest, and definitely _not_ as an enemy."

"Frenemy," Love God said.

"That's a loathsome neologism. I _like_ it."

"As one frenemy to the other," Love God said patiently (love is patient), "tell me what you're up to."

"How about a drink?"

"Early in the morning for me, so just a small nectar."

Mammonus waved his hand and conjured a very small wine glass with a glowing liquid in it, together with a much large goblet from which steam curled. He handed the small one to Love God, and they clinked rims. Then after a steaming sip, Mammonus said, "I'll tell you what I'm up to if you'll tell me what you're down for. You go first."

Love God sighed. "This is good nectar, Mam. I'm drinking mostly the diet stuff now, but one small glass can't hurt, I suppose. Anyway, I am simply here to take part in the music festival called Woodstick, the one we've been looking at. OK? Don't laugh or sneer at me. I write and perform songs."

Mammonus drained his drink in one long swallow. "I won't fail to miss your performance. OK, cards out of my sleeve and on the table, right? My mission has to do with Woodstick, too. There are five performers whom I am going to return to their former owner and manager, that's all."

Love God gave him a sharp glance. "Sev'ral Timez?"

Surprise flickered across Mammonus's suave features. "Yes, that's right. Do you know them?"

Love God snapped his fingers and his nectar glass vanished in a poof of silvery vapor. "Our paths have crossed. I've heard many stories of their former manager. Bratsman, his name is, I believe?"

"Yes, that's correct. My client and our property."

"Doesn't surprise me, from what I've heard about him. You've signed a contract with him, I suppose?"

Mammonus vanished his glass. "Oh, yes, soul for a wish, all very legal."

"But," said Love God, whose thought processes could be slow—but thorough—said, "in order to force the boys in the band to go back to Bratsman, you'd have to cross Mabel Pines. She's one of ours, you know."

"In fact, I didn't know that." Mammonus groaned a little. "Look, 'Cross' is an ugly phrase, though, Mr. C. Let's say . . . cross _out_."

"As in destroy?" Love God asked. His jolly surfer-guy personality had vanished, and now he looked thoroughly serious and oddly, but unmistakably, dangerous.

"As in annihilate, yes. Metaphorically, at least—are you angry?" Mammonus sounded genuinely surprised.

Love God's stare could have sliced meat. "Not exactly. Look, I'm not blaming you. Orders are orders, and you're who you are. There's no helping that. You'll behave as your kind must behave. However, as a frenemy, I have to warn you, Mammonus—I'll have to fight you on this one. Like you, I don't have a choice in a good versus evil situation."

"Oh dear," said Mammonus. He really did look contrite. "Sorry, Cupid. I had no idea."

"You'd better think about it," Love God said. "Think carefully. I warn you, this won't end well." He closed his eyes and popped out of existence. So did the lawn chair he'd been sitting on.

Mammonus took a deep breath. "Bless it all to heaven!" he said in exasperation. As Cupid had recommended, he thought about the whole situation. And then he summed up his feelings: "Well, shit."


	9. Chapter 9

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**9: Our Time Is Running Out**

The afternoon of August 11, 2017. Backstage at Woodstick. Mabel and Teek listen to Sev'ral Timez rehearsing a new song in their repertoire, "Heading On," an anthem to the end of their touring days and the beginning of something new.

It is, to be precise, five PM. That means that the Sev'ral Timez guys have fifty-five hours to live.

Shh. They don't know that yet. Nor does Mabel, though a cloud of gloom hangs over her, or maybe it's not a cloud, but a shadow of doom. The finger-popping, smoothly-danced song is very much in the mode of their 2009 music, deliberately nostalgic. Despite its bittersweet message—I love you, but I'm heading on, before you know it, I'll be gone, heading on, heading on, yeah, I'm heading on—the song has a lively beat and a warm feeling to it.

Tad Strange smiles, as much as he ever does. He's hard to read. His expression is technically a smile, but it could also be the glazed apology of a head-blow victim, an amnesiac's genial, "Sorry, but could you tell me my name?" sort of look.

The guys wind up in a tableau. Then they break it, beaming. "What do you think, girl?" asks Deep Chris.

"Yo, did we nail it, y'all?" asks Creggy G.

"Chill, dude, and let them answer!" rebukes Leggy P.

"It was great," Mabel says. "Really. It was so much like "Missin' Kissin'."

"Yo!" says Chubby Z. "That was a straight platinum record! Thanks, girl!"

"Dig it," says a delighted Greggy C, "we are going out as superstars!"

"Mr. Strange," says Deep Chris, "what did you think?"

"It was fine," says Tad.

"Only—?" prompts Chubby Z.

"Only," Tad says slowly, "maybe a little flashier into the tableau. That's the only thing."

"Show us! Show us! Show us!" chant the five guys.

"From the bridge to the last verse," Tad says, standing.

The band starts up. On the fourth bar, Tad does a surprising slide step to the right, lowers both hands to mid-thigh level and his legs snake as he steps forward, then into a fast shuffle step, one hand on his stomach, a pirouette, and into a final pose. "A little like that," Tad says mildly, not even breathing hard.

Mabel's jaw hangs open.

No one has ever seen Tad Strange dance before.

The group applauds. "Let's run through that like six times, yo!" says Deep Chris.

"I . . . need some air," Mabel says.

"Yo, Mabel girl," says Creggy G, "you'll come up on stage with us for the finale, right?"

"Oh . . . sure," she says.

"Righteous!" says Greggy C. "It wouldn't be the same without you!"

"Eleven PM on Sunday, girl!" Leggy P reminds her. "Be there!"

"S-sure," she says, smiling.

The boys begin to rehearse the new spin and snap, and Mabel and Teek drift out to the audience, where some folk-a-billy fans are clapping along to Hix from the Stix. Not Mabel's kind of music, but they go to their seats in the V.I.P. section, Mabel wondering why she's feeling so off. Well, there's all the mystery about the pigs and that, and Dipper and Grunkle Ford have warned her to bewarb—sorry, beware—but she can't see any immediate threat. Still, she feels—not afraid, exactly. On edge. As if something is coming.

But she holds Teek's hand as the hip group onstage ironically sings old folk songs to a rocking hillbilly beat and tries to feel good again.

And though she does not know it, of course, the Sev'ral Timez boys have fifty-four hours and twenty-six minutes to live.

* * *

A little earlier that day—

Without previous warning, Wendy, Dipper, and Stanford Pines dropped in on the Reverend Gaspell, the Corduroy family pastor. The church wasn't wealthy enough to provide him with a home, and he had a job on the side—he was a certified counselor—and his modest house included a small but comfortable office. Ford and Wendy sat in the two armchairs. Dipper, at the Reverend's invitation, brought a straight wooden chair in and sat next to Wendy, holding her hand.

Gaspell listened to Stanford's story and Wendy and Dipper added some details. Finally, the kindly pastor leaned back in his chair. "A demon," he said. He smiled. "This really is more Father Perez's territory. My seminary had very little to say about exorcising demons and such."

"We plan to see him, too," Ford said. "But let me make myself clear: 'Demon' may not be a literal term. My research has shown that there are myriads of other dimensional realities in the Multiverse. Ordinarily, they're all separate, but sometimes, and in some places, forces or even beings from one dimension can leak into others. We've seen that happen."

"We dealt with a talking frog once," Wendy said.

"And a fictional evil wizard that came to life," Dipper added. "And a monster that looked like a cross between a bear and a giant loaf of bread."

"I've had the occasional brush with uncanny things as well," Gaspell said. "Nowhere else but in Gravity Falls, though."

"Our town is a magnet for uncanny intrusions," Ford agreed. "But these things—the frog and the zombies and monsters—are created, or at least energized, by the leakage of powers or beings from other realities. These dimensional travelers—well, sometimes we use the word 'demon' as short-hand for 'dimensional intruder.'"

"They really exist, then?" Gaspell asked, sounding interested.

Ford nodded. "I've not only run into them—I've been one. I had an accident some time back that sent me into bizarre alternate dimensions. There I was the monster."

"He's a wanted man," Wendy said. "He has the death sentence in twelve dimensions."

"I saw that movie," Gaspell said with a smile. "Very well. Assuming that this is a legitimate demon you're worrying about, let me do some research and I'll email you anything that seems helpful in dealing with one. I'm not equipped with implements, mind. I would suggest asking Father Perez about, well, you know, crosses and holy water and suchlike. Wendy, Dipper, are we still set for December?"

"Exact date to come," Wendy said. "But probably right after Christmas."

"But you'll have a civil ceremony first, so this will be a renewal of vows," Gaspell said.

"It's just that we'll be living together in college," Dipper explained, "and we don't want it to be, um—"

"Irregular," Gaspell said. "I understand, and you have my blessing, if you want it. I will clear my calendar for the whole week after Christmas. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

* * *

Father Perez was the Ramirez family priest, but he knew the Pines twins quite well. He and Gaspell had co-officiated at Robbie's and Tambry's wedding, which Mabel had coordinated. He had not been born in Gravity Falls, but in a small town in Central America. His father had told him stories of how a generation earlier desperate farmers worked in their fields all night, trying to save a harvest threatened by an approaching storm.

"They worked in the light of torches," his father had told him. "and as it seemed they could not harvest the corn and the beans fast enough, each man suddenly saw beside him two white figures. Possibly blessed souls, possibly compassionate angels. Anyway, they saved enough of their crops to see the village through the storm and through the winter."

Father Perez was open to supernatural interventions, both good and bad. He approved when Dipper opened a box of simple wooden crosses—two dozen of them, with leather thongs. Dipper apologized: "These are sort of tourist trinkets. Soos bought them for us from his supplier. They're not, uh, official or anything."

"It is not the material that matters," the priest said gently, "but the faith behind it." He blessed the crosses and then consecrated first salt and then water—it came not from a tap but from a spring near the church.

"I know none of you is of our faith," the priest said at last, "but if you are facing an enemy of God's, please accept my benediction. When hell threatens, all people of good will should stand together."

"Sir," Stanford said, "we'd be honored to accept your blessing."

* * *

"You?" Mabel asked. "I thought you'd given up—"

"Shh!" Love God said. He was wearing a raincoat and a fedora—though the raincoat looked suspiciously bulgy in back where his wings were folded. "I don't want the fans to notice me. Come on back, I've got something to tell you. No tricks."

"Teek's coming with me," Mabel warned.

"Sure, fine, but come on!"

They slipped from their seats and went behind the stage to Love God's van. "It's a little messy," he apologized, "but it's private."

It was a little messy, and the back smelled like feet and pizza. "I only use it this one time a year nowadays," Love God apologized. "I keep meaning to clean it out, but you know how it is. Listen, Mabel, I'm semi-retired as a musician, yeah, but once a year I gotta get my licks in."

"You lost some pounds," Mabel said. The cherub had doffed his raincoat and hat.

"Psyche kept after me," he said. "She was right. Being a chub's fine for a baby cherub, but when you get to be a married man—never mind that! Listen. There's a guy hanging around you want to watch out for—"

"A demon," Mabel said.

"He's a—wait, what? How'd you even know that?" Love God asked.

"Two pigs and a dog told us," Teek said. He didn't much care for Love God, and his disdain sort of showed.

"OK, not even gonna argue with that," Love God said. "Thing is, this dude is very seductive. I mean, not that way, but he can persuade you to do things that you shouldn't do. Usually by dangling money as a temptation. His name is Mammon, and I'm not really sure what his game is yet. Listen, I hear from my pizza buddy Greggy C that you and his group have some history."

Teek growled a little. He hadn't been around for that first summer, but since then he'd learned of how Mabel had idolized Sev'ral Timez. He didn't approve.

"Yeah," Mabel said. "I just talked to them about an hour ago."

"Stay away from them," Love God said. "I think Mammonus—he's the demon guy I was talking about—is focusing on them."

"He's gonna corrupt them?" Teek asked.

"Uhh—not sure. Don't think so. Their old manager, though—big guy, was even fatter than I used to be—"

"Bratsman," Mabel said. "He's a terrible man."

"Yeah, well, I kinda get the feeling—I can't go into too much detail about this, sorry, ineffable rules and free will and all that—but I kinda think that Bratsman is involved. Like maybe he invoked Mammonus."

"Is that the same as Mammon?" Teek asked.

"He's had many names," Love God said. "Plutus, Teutates, Veles, and yeah, Mammon. Like I'm Love God, he's what you might call Money God."

"Money's the root of all evil," Teek told Mabel.

"No, no, no!" Love God exclaimed with surprising vehemence. "Don't make that mistake. The _love _of money is the root of all evil. And that's like an overstatement, but it's greed that blinds people and leads them into error, not just money. Money has proper uses, and not everybody who sets out to gain it is evil."

"There's Grunkle Stan's loophole," Mabel murmured. "OK, so this Mammon guy—what do we watch out for? What does he look like?"

"He's kind of a shapeshifter," Love God said. "Or at least he can change his appearance, so you can't rely on a description. But one thing—he can't change his eyes. He's got golden eyes. So watch out for people wearing sunglasses!"

"Like half the crowd," Teek said.

"Yeah, sorry. OK, that's the warning. You two get together with your friends and stick with them. Don't let anybody draw you off alone. And stay away from Sev'ral Timez."

"Not gonna happen," Mabel said. "If they're in trouble, I won't desert them. I owe that to them. I'm the one who got them away from Bratsman."

"Oh, boy," Love God said.

* * *

"You look ridiculous," Ergman Bratsman said to Wilmer.

"Trying to blend in with the crowd, Boss," Wilmer said.

"How about going and changing to jeans and some tee shirt?" Bratsman said. "And, I don't know, sunglasses or something. Just try to look like a person!"

"And then what?"

"Then stick close to Mabel Pines. And if you get a chance at her—you know what to do."

Wilmer bit his lip.

"You know," Bratsman repeated, "what to do."

"Yeah," Wilmer muttered.

But his heart wasn't in it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**10: Headin' into Twilight**

"Where have you guys been?" Mabel asked when Dipper and Wendy showed up. Dipper was looking . . . well, kinda cool, actually. He'd combed his hair forward in an untidy brush, wore aviator shades, a worn black leather jacket (where did he even get that?) over a gray V-necked tee shirt (he could finally pull that off!), faded slim-fit jeans, and ankle boots with silver studs.

And Wendy . . . an unbuttoned black Hawaiian shirt with a green-and-gold bamboo print over a red bikini top. Low-slung cut-off jeans over black leggings. Purple and white high-top sneakers. Her hair swept dramatically over to the left, her eyes smoky with lavender lining, her lips bright glossy red.

"Whoa," Teek whispered.

"Concert camo," Wendy said. "Got an axe under the shirt."

On stage, Breezy and the Four Winds were in the middle of a throwback eighties song. "Let's go to the concessions area," Mabel said. "Got some news."

As they made their way, she punched her brother's shoulder. "Come on, Dip! You got a bad-guy outfit going on and you ruin it with a man purse?"

"Messenger bag," Dipper said. "We came with supplies."

They went past a row of food carts—Mabel paused at "Let's Twist Again" to buy a soft pretzel, tossing a small bite of it to Tripper—and back beyond the portable potties, into the overcrowded parking lot, where cars were triple-parked and Deputy Durland was dispensing tickets from a hand-held printer. Soos pulled the tram around near the RV that was the mini-Mystery Shack, a crowd filed off it, and the four, plus the dog, climbed aboard. "Nobody else leaving, dudes?" Soos asked.

"We're it. And we'll want to come back on the next tram," Mabel said.

"You got it, Hambone. All aboard!"

They made their slow way to the Shack and went up to the attic for a council of war. "Let's make this fast," Dipper said. "We only have fifteen minutes until Soos goes back to the concert."

"The parking lot's full," Mabel pointed out. "He probably won't have any passengers."

"He'll have some," Wendy said. "They'll start parking on the shoulders of the driveway now. Sun will go down soon, and people will park anywhere they can."

"OK," Dipper said. "We consulted with Father Perez and Reverend Gaspell, and Grunkle Ford is looking up demonology. I've got some stuff in my bag that should help us. Here, you two put these on." He rummaged in the bag and passed them two blessed crosses.

"Got my own," Teek said. He wore a gold crucifix on a chain inside his shirt.

"Put this one on, too," Mabel said. "You can't have too many. Hey, is there a rabbi in town? We need a few Star of David pendants, too!"

"I think the closest synagogue is in Mossy Run, sorry," Wendy said.

"We also have some consecrated water," Dipper said, handing out small bottles.

"This isn't gonna be like the Gremloblin, is it?" Mabel asked cautiously. "Splattering him just made him meaner!"

"No, this is supposed to help," Dipper said. "Here's what we found out." He summarized what they had learned from their conversations. "Grunkle Ford says it would help if we had some idea of the demon's identity—"

"Mammon," Teek said at once.

"What?" Wendy asked. "Mammon? As in 'ye cannot serve both God and Mammon?'" When they all stared at her, she said, "Hey, I went to Sunday school! Mammon, Dipper—he represents greed."

"One of the Seven Deadly Sins," Teek agreed.

"Where did you find out the demon's name?" Dipper asked.

"From a cherub, Dip! Boom!" Mabel said. "Straight from the Love God's lips. She told them what Love God had told her and Teek.

"Bratsman," Dipper said. "I don't think I ever saw him, but I remember you and Candy talking about him. Come on, we have to tell Grunkle Ford."

"Do we have time?"

"He's just down in the lab," Dipper said. "Come on. Tripper, you stay. Good boy."

They went down to the gift shop—Melody had closed it up—and Dipper pressed the entry code in on the vending-machine keypad. All four of them hurried downstairs.

Ford sat hunched over one of his computers, and in the corner the printer was sending out sheet after sheet. "You startled me," he said, looking around. "I—oh, my word! Wendy, Dipper, you look—different!"

"Bad boy and bad girl getup," Wendy said. "Camouflage. Listen."

They told him, and he quickly turned back to the keyboard. "How do you spell that?" he asked.

Mabel knew: "E-R-G-M-A-N, space, B-R-A-T-S-M-A-N."

"Here we go. PACER. Ah, that's public access to case records. And let me do a search. Federal Court District 9, central . . . convicted in February 2013, sentenced to ten to fifteen years in the penitentiary . . . pardoned last year. Unfortunate. No other lesser charges filed in state court. And he's pardoned, not paroled, so he doesn't have to report to a parole officer. We can't track him like that."

"How could he be _pardoned_?" Mabel asked. "He was guilty of slavery and human trafficking, and, and evil use of science!"

"The conviction was for violating Federal laws on human experimentation," Ford said. "The other charges, I suppose, were subsumed into that. Just a second . . . huh. The pardon apparently was supported by the Department of Justice on the grounds that clones are ineligible for the protection of law."

"Why?" Teek asked, looking angry. "They aren't illegal aliens!"

"The Administration's argument," Ford said, reading from the screen, "is that they aren't human."

"That's ridiculous!" Dipper said.

"Until there's a change in government," Ford said, "there's probably nothing we can do."

"Yes, there is!" Mabel exclaimed. "We can protect my boys!"

Ford stopped them at the bottom of the stairs. "I'll stay in touch," he said. "Mabel, do you know what this Bratsman looks like?"

"Yeah! You know that big balloon guy in that hero cartoon?"

"Um . . . I do not."

"Well, check it online and then picture the balloon guy as a human being with a nasty sneer and one gold tooth and badly dressed, and you got him. Let's go!"

"Stay on the lookout for Bratsman!" Ford said. "And don't try to engage him!"

"I'm already pre-engaged to Teek!" Mabel said from the top of the stair.

"No, I mean don't confront him!" Ford said. "He may not be a demon—but he's probably dangerous!"

"We'll be careful, Great-Uncle Ford!" Dipper, the first one out of the concealed door, called back.

Stanford sighed and took out his computer phone. He speed-dialed.

"Yeah, what is it, Brainiac?" came a gravel voice.

"Stanley, I think the kids are in more trouble than they suspect. They may need your help. Can you get to Woodstick quickly?"

"Just a sec." A raucous rock song surged behind him. "I'm there. I'm the promoter, Poindexter! I'll be here all weekend!" A door slammed, cutting off the music.

"See that Dipper and Mabel are watched over," Ford advised. "Can you detail at least one Security man to guard them?"

"It's important?"

"It may be life or death."

"I'm on it. Hey, Sixer, do me a little favor. Call Sheila and tell her to go to the special drawer in my bureau and bring me my brass knucks. Also my lucky Louisville Slugger from the closet."

Ford bit his lip. "Stanley—I hate to say this, but though we think we know who the threat is, you can't beat him up without provocation."

"Eh, is it my fault if the guy trips and hurts himself? Call Sheila, Ford. Anything happens, I'll take the heat. Meanwhile, I'll line up some protection for the kids."

"Thank you, Stanley." Ford couldn't help smiling. He couldn't stand Stanley at times—

But he could always depend on him.

He dialed Stan's home number and waited for Sheila to pick up.

* * *

"You just made it, guys!" Soos said as they clambered onto the tram. "Next stop, Woodstick."

Dipper craned to look back. The tram held just one other passenger, a skinny, black-haired guy wearing sunglasses way in the last car. He wore a white tee-shirt under a denim jacket and was leaning back, watching the scenery slip by as Soos headed down the driveway.

As though he thought Dipper was worried about the lack of tram traffic, Soos said, "It's cool, dawg. I'll probably pick up like half a load on the way back, people going off site to get dinner. It's getting to be that time. And around six-thirty, seven, they'll be parking on the edge of the driveway. I've done this, like, a hundred times before!"

The cops—there actually was a whole force besides just Blubs and Durland, and some of them were competent—were controlling the traffic. The tram got a turn signal waved on from one and Soos set off for the concert site.

In the last car, Wilmer pretended to be very interested in what was happening off to the right, which was nothing in particular.

However, he kept his head turned because he didn't care to let a cop get a good look at his face.

Not that he was wanted for anything.

Not yet, anyway.

* * *

"'Course they'll be dressed up for the concert," Stanley told the Security man he'd called back into the RV he used for a concert office. "But this is my nephew and niece. They're twins, uh—" Stan squinted to read the uniformed guard's gold nameplate—"PSO Bonnar."

The tall, thin man took the photo and studied it without removing his shades. The picture showed Dipper and Mabel, earlier in the summer, posing with Stanley Pines in front of a totem pole. "They look a lot alike," the security guard said.

"Yeah, fraternal twins, like I say. Wait a minute and I'll photocopy the picture for you. I'd kinda like to keep the original."

"You don't need to," Bonnar said, handing it back with a quick, tight smile. "I've got a great memory for faces."

"OK, they're either out there in the VIP seating area, center left, or they'll be on their way there. Lemme see . . . seats L-1, L-2, L-3, L-4. They'll have dates with them."

"What do you want me to do?" Bonnar asked.

"Just keep an eye on 'em. I dunno, there's some crazy guy just outa the pen, he's got a grudge against Mabel. Don't make a big obvious thing, but don't let her out of your sight. She leaves, report to me, OK?"

"Got it. What is your nephew's name?"

"Dipper. Nickname, but everybody calls him that. They're Mabel and Dipper Pines. Seventeen, both of 'em."

"I'll go check and see if they're in their seats."

"Good man."

Bonnar left—the shrieks of excited fans momentarily pouring in from the amphitheater when he opened the door—and for a few seconds, Stan sat frowning in his chair. He studied the photo—him in the middle, just below the buck teeth of the carved figure he thought of as Bucky Beaver, Mabel leaning on his left shoulder, Dipper standing with his hand on Stan's right shoulder, all three smiling at the camera.

_God, when did they both get so tall? And Dipper's got a chest on him now and muscles in his arms, and Mabel's turned into a freakin' beauty! And there's me lookin' twenty years younger than I really am. Geeze, where do the years go? I hope Bonnar's a good man._

Wait a minute. Bonnar. Bonnar. He somehow didn't remember the name.

Stan reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a ledger. He turned to EMPLOYEES. There he found STA-SAFE SECURITY CO. Fifteen employees listed there. Three shift commanders, then three shifts of four guards each.

Adams, Atkins, Bonnar, there he was.

_Bonnar, Damon E., Private Security Officer 1_ _st_ _, $17.59/hour._

OK, so he must be good at his job. There were only four grade-1 PSOs. The rest were grade-2, $15.59/hour.

This was the first shift, so Stan ran his eye down the list and found the first-shift commander. Thurman, Frank. He reached for the walkie-talkie and called.

"Thurman here," crackled the voice from the speaker. Frank was having to talk loud over the music and the chanting crowd.

Stan raised his voice to be heard: "Yeah, this is Stan. Listen, I've detailed one of your guys to keep an eye on a couple people out there."

"Trouble?"

"Nah, more just a precaution," Stan said. "He'll hang around the VIP section. Don't get on his case about it, OK?"

"Got it."

"How's it going out there?"

"The usual, nothing big. Broke up a couple of scuffles over somebody taking somebody else's seat. Confiscated a few beers kids smuggled in, warned a few smokers, both straight and weed. Stopped a couple of vapers, told some kids displaying too much public affection to knock it off. Three or four counterfeited tickets. The usual. Keeping the peace."

"Keep up the good work."

"Roger that."

And Stan breathed a sigh of relief and put the ledger back in the desk.


	11. Chapter 11

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**11: When the Night Has Come**

It was too bad that Robbie, Tambry, and the Tombstones were down in LA recording an album, because they would have loved to be a part of the death-metal set that began at seven PM. The Chayne Gang led off with their only hit, "Armageddon Out of Here," and though the lyrics and melody were dark, the beat was pumping, and the crowd began to get into the mood.

"Don't forget to keep an eye out for Bratsman," Dipper warned.

"We can do that and still have fun!" Mabel insisted.

"Yeah, man," Wendy agreed. "That's all we really want! But that guy down there to the right of the stage—that's not him, right?"

As the group finished its one and only song, and the audience cheered, Mabel craned her neck. "The skinny black-haired guy down there in the denim jacket? No, he's only about a third the width of Bratsman, and he's taller, too."

"You oughta know," Wendy said. "We should find a photo of the dude, so we'd recognize him if we saw him."

"There was one in the _Gossiper,_" Mabel said. "I think it was a mug shot or something when he got arrested."

The MC on stage announced the next set, by the Bare Assassins, and the crowd mostly cheered. Some of the older fans were drifting out, heading to dinner, probably, maybe planning on returning at ten for the Classics set, bands playing music from the eighties to the first decade of the century. The girl vocalist for the group, Scarlet Weasel, rasped, "Get on outa here if you're goin'!" Then she began to hit the first number the Assassins played, screaming out the lyrics: "It's a cut-throat world, but I'm a knife-wielding girl, slash! Slash! It's gravy to me—"

Dipper's nerves throbbed like the heavy beat. He couldn't help swiveling his head, scanning the seated and the walking audience members, trying to spot someone who matched Mabel's description of Bratsman. Nobody did.

_Relax, _he told himself. _Sev'ral Timez will only do one number tonight. Their real sets are tomorrow and Sunday night. If he's going to make a move, it would most likely be just after one of their performances. Anyhow, there's a guard not more than a dozen feet away. He wouldn't try anything now._

Wendy took his hand and spoke to him telepathically: _Dude, you're seriously wired about this! Don't look so antsy. Anybody seein' you would know you're suspicious and looking for somebody in the crowd. Be like Stan. Put on your poker face!_

—_Hard to do. Gideon invoked Bill Cipher the first time we met him. If Bratsman's really called on some demon—_

_There's like three thousand people in the audience, Dip! And there are four of us here, a security force standing guard, and Stan not a hundred feet away. I don't think the guy will make a move tonight._

—_You're probably right. _Dipper took a deep breath. _I'll try to get on top of it. But this music isn't helping._

That part was true. Now the Assassins were revving up with "Dead in the Woods," which began not with a guitar riff but with Scarlet suddenly screaming into the microphone. Dipper wasn't a fan and had never heard the song, and it made him jump, but it looked like even the Bare Assassins fanatics in the audience reacted the same way.

Teek said something, loud and leaning toward Mabel's ear, but the song itself drowned out what he said, and Dipper couldn't hear any of it. However, Mabel tapped his arm and jerked her finger. He nodded and squeezed Wendy's hand. —_Looks like we're taking a break._

They did wait until the Assassins had taken their bows and the next group, the Claws, were setting up. They got out into the concession area before that group tuned up. "I don't like this genre," Teek said apologetically. "Why don't we go eat and come back around ten?"

"Sounds like a plan," Wendy said.

"I need to go to the bathroom first," Mabel said.

"I'll go with you." The two girls walked away, but Dipper and Teek closely trailed them.

Mabel paused at the first vacant portable potty. "You guys! Give a girl some privacy!"

"They're looking out for you, Mabes," Wendy advised. "Go ahead, don't be shy. It's a natural function. Nobody minds a fart or two."

"You try to be ladylike, and look what happens," Mabel grumbled, but she closed the door. And she actually did whatever it was she had to do silently, or at least so softly that whatever band was on stage drowned it out with thumping bass. She came out a little red-faced. "OK, let's go. Catch the tram or walk?"

"Let's walk," Wendy said. "We'll be all right if we stick together. Downtown?"

"Yeah, that's closest," Dipper said. "But we'll probably wait an hour for a table, with a crowd like this one heading in." They had joined a throng of people leaving, probably all of them hungry and hunting for a place to eat.

But luck turned their way. A three-seater SUV paused and somebody—Thompson!—called out the open drivers' window: "You guys want a ride?"

"Yeah, we do!" Mabel said, and they scrambled in, Dipper and Wendy in the back seat, Mabel and Teek in the middle.

"You guys remember Vanilla, don't you?" Thompson asked.

His fiancée, who had de-Gothed her look, turned and said, "Hi! Uh, Mabel and Dipper and Wendy, and I'm sorry-?"

"Teek O'Grady!" Mabel said. "Teek, this is Vanilla. I think you know Thompson."

"From the theater, yeah," Teek said. "How are you guys liking the concert?"

"Bitchin'," Vanilla said.

"I'm sorry?" Mabel asked.

Thompson laughed. "Vanilla's been practicing old-time slang. That means incredibly badass!"

"Thompson!" Wendy said, giggling. "Man, you used to blush when somebody said something like 'crap.'"

"My man's more mature now," Vanilla said placidly.

"You guys going for dinner?" Thompson asked as he threaded his slow way down the drive to the highway.

"Yeah, but I'm thinking everything will be slammed," Dipper said.

"How about Epiglottis?" Thompson asked. "It's not too far outside the Valley, and it probably won't be full."

"It's OK," Mabel said. "Little overpriced."

"This weekend, everything's overpriced," Teek reminded her.

Dipper said, "I think we can cover it. That's fine with me. Wendy?"

"Yeah, only eaten there a couple times. It'll do, but nobody order anything with fish in it. My dad got seriously sick there back in the spring."

Epiglottis was tucked into a small clearing and at first sight looked more like a private club than a restaurant, but it was in fact a general-American (and generic, Wendy said) restaurant. The wait for a table was less than five minutes, and the service was reasonably fast. They weren't adventurous, but settled for standard, unexciting fare—chopped steak for Vanilla, chicken cutlet for Thompson, a vegetable plate for the cautious Wendy, and so on.

"You'll never find a parking place back at Woodstick, dude," Wendy cautioned Thompson.

"That's OK," he said. "We can drop you guys off, and then Vanilla and I can park the SUV behind the library. Nobody can find the lot very easily, and it's not that long a walk."

Dipper, who'd ordered an open-faced prime-rib sandwich, paused with the last forkful halfway to his mouth. Under the table, he put a hand on Wendy's bare knee, not for the obvious reason.

—_Am I crazy, or is the guy over there in the corner table familiar?_

Wendy looked in Mabel's direction, but not at her. She said, "How was your mac and cheese, Mabes?" but to Dipper she thought, _The guy in the denim jacket. Think he followed us?_

—_I don't see any other concert-goers in here, do you?_

_What's the plan? Get up in his face?_

—_Not here. Let's see if he tails us back to the concert._

Mabel was still extolling the mac and cheese, but Dipper reached for her and Teek's check. "Everybody ready?" he asked brightly. "We want to get back before the classics start. Come on, Thompson, we'll pay up front."

He and Wendy rose, and after a moment of hesitation—"I wanted dessert," Mabel confided—the others followed him.

He paid, including a generous tip, and said, "Sorry for rushing, but we want to get back to Woodstick."

"Wish I could go," the lady at the counter said. Thompson paid with a credit card, which expedited things—no change, just a signature—and Dipper shepherded them all out of the building. They piled into Thompson's car and he pulled out from under the parking-lot sodium-vapor lights and made the turn back toward town.

Dipper twisted around to look out the back window. To his relief, no vehicle immediately appeared behind them. "Maybe I was wrong," he said quietly to Wendy.

She touched the back of his neck. _Don't think so, Dip. I recognized him, too. He doesn't look very dangerous, though—kinda a skinny little geek._

—_I still don't like it, though. I saw him on the tram, too. It's like he's keeping an eye on us, or maybe just on Mabel._

_Think he's a demon?_

—_Guess not. He doesn't have that kind of vibe. And you're right, he doesn't look like he could put up much of a fight, but still—_

_We'll stay sharp, Dip. We'll watch out for him._

The sun had set half an hour before, and deep twilight had fallen over the countryside. The sky was clear, but the moon, waning now, wouldn't be up until ten-thirty or so, and it looked like soon the land would be dark.

Thompson made the turn into the main—in fact the only—highway into town, and soon they passed under the metal sign that had finally replaced the crumbling old railway trestle. At that point, Dipper tensed again.

_See something?_

—_Either a car with one headlight out or a motorcycle. It's pretty far back. Can't see it now that we've gone round the curve._

_Cool it. No need to scare Thompson. And Mabel and Teek are smooching._

—_I'll watch for it when we slow down for the festival._

They rejoined moderately heavy traffic as they got into downtown, most of the cars heading either away from or toward Woodstick. Dipper saw Durland walking along the shoulder, ticketing cars. "Hope you can find a parking slot," he told Thompson.

"I think we're good. This OK? I can turn around right here if I'm quick."

"This is great, man. Thanks!" Wendy said.

Teek opened the door, and they scrambled out, waving as Thompson turned round the delta-shaped island splitting the driveway into left and right components. The four of them joined a jostling crowd heading into the festival either for the first time or to show their wristbands for re-admission. They were almost to the gate where a security guard was checking the plastic bracelets when behind them a motorcycle blatted past. Dipper quickly turned his head and got a flash of a rider wearing a helmet and—a denim jacket.

"Hey, Dip!" Mabel said, blundering into him. "Why'd you stop, Bro-bro?"

"I just . . . saw someone," he said.

Mabel looked around, but the guy had gone on back to the parking area. "Who?"

"Guy on a motorbike," Dipper said.

"Lucky," Teek said. "You can always squeeze one of them into a full lot."

"Yeah, but—forget it, I don't want to scare you guys."

"What? Mabel asked. "Come on! I won't be afraid."

"It's just that I noticed the guy earlier, and I kept catching him looking our way," Dipper said. "That's all. Probably nothing."

"Wrist," said the security guard. Dipper held out his right arm, and the guard's chip reader chimed. "Go on in. Next!"

"Hey, nobody got our seats!" Mabel said, sounding delighted.

"It's the VIP section," Teek pointed out. "Plus, there's a security guard standing right there."

As they passed the man, Mabel said, "Thanks for not letting anybody steal our seats, Mr. Bonnar."

"That's what I'm here for," the guard said pleasantly. "Enjoy the show!"

As they sat down, Dipper took Wendy's hand. —_There he is, just coming in. Must have been him on the motorcycle._

_Don't look at him. I'll watch where he sits. Sooner or later, we'll face him down and find out what this is all about. We'll scare the pants off him if we have to._

—_That'll be the day!_

Dipper shivered, not knowing why. And then he recalled the song that Stan sometimes played when he was feeling nostalgic, a real oldie. It was called "That'll Be the Day," too.

And the lyric ended, "That'll be the day . . . that I die."


	12. Chapter 12

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**12: The Land Is Dark**

Though his first set wasn't scheduled until Saturday at one PM, that Friday night Love God sat on a director's chair in the wings, keeping an eye on Mabel and her friends. Funny how intellectually he felt that he should hate her, but emotionally, he couldn't.

Some things even an angel couldn't do. Like hate. Or like changing the fate of a mortal, unless directed to do so by higher powers.

He remembered all too well. He'd been high on the music that day when in the diner (what was the name? Greasy's. Yeah, great name for a small-town diner, and honest, too) Mabel had cajoled him into demonstrating his powers. And he'd exhibited them in the easiest way, the lazy way he had come to rely on (real miracles took energy that he saved for the stage, baby). He was Love God, he could whomp up more love potions than you could believe, and once they were made, delivery was stupidly simple, a dip of the finger, a flick of the wrist.

And for some reason he'd told Mabel the secret and had even admitted that he was a cherub. And then she had stolen some of his stuff and used it on Tambry and Robbie!

Well, OK, a quick check later showed that Tambry and Robbie were Meant to Be, except Mabel's use of the potion had jumped the gun by two years. So no lasting harm, no terrible foul. But, doggone it, then she had stolen his whole belt and had grabbed his anti-love potion! He remembered thinking, _Looks like I'm the fool again!_

He didn't like it.

And then he'd tried to remonstrate with her some years later—come to think of it, at Woodstick—by zapping her with a strong jealousy spell.

OK, so he'd missed. He hardly ever missed. Oh, there was that one time he was supposed to hit Psyche, because Mom totally begrudged the way other mortals praised the girl's beauty, saying she was as gorgeous as Venus, and by a complete freak accident, Cupid had wounded not Psyche, but himself!

Tell the truth, though, that match was also Meant to Be, and in the end Venus couldn't do anything to break them up. Good thing, too, because when Love God had fouled up and hit Wendy with the jealousy spell instead of Mabel, it was Psyche who'd come to Earth and talked him into helping.

So he couldn't hate Mabel. For one thing, his nature was angelic, and his kind didn't hold grudges. For another, he'd rewarded her injuring his pride by injuring her friend's feelings, and each was just as wrong as the other. They were even.

And for the most important thing—he'd come to realize that Mabel, mortal and fallible though she was, had a much more loving heart than, well, almost anybody. And she was quick to forgive, and she had a cheerful spirit, and she was always helpful. One of her friends had even once called her a straight-up saint.

Well, she wasn't, not officially. Despite her virtues, Mabel made more mistakes than the average saint.

Because she was mortal and fallible, sometimes others didn't see those virtues, but there they were, deep inside her soul, shining like a good deed in a weary world. And Mabel had a resonance about her, something that told Love God she was destined for something wonderful.

Trouble was, you couldn't always rely on destiny. Free will and all that. Heavens, Alferd Packer had been destined to become a great humanitarian, but he slipped from his ordained fate and instead became a frontier cannibal, eating five of the seven Democrats in Hinsdale County, Colorado. Hmm. On second thought, he did become a humanitarian. From a certain point of view.

Anyway, Mabel shouldn't be in jeopardy, yet she was. And now here Love God was worried about her as though she were his . . . not his daughter. His favorite niece, maybe. If she were lost in the darkness, he would be the light to guide her. That kind of thing.

Watching from the shadowed wings, looking across the stage, past drum sets and guitarists, past violinists and fiddlin' fools, Love God watched Mabel. She was smiling, and her boyfriend, T.K., what did she call him, Teek, looked happy.

But she was worried, he could tell. Small strain lines around her eyes that only someone with supernaturally sharp vision could notice from this distance. And Wendy and Dipper—despite himself, Love God grinned, remembering how Dipper had been so upset at what he'd done accidentally to Wendy that the boy had decked him with a solid punch—Wendy and Dipper looked concerned. Love God didn't even resent Dipper. As Psyche had pointed out, he'd deserved the punch, and mortal blows don't really hurt immortal beings.

But anyway their expressions showed they were worried.

So . . . they all knew something was up. They all knew that some danger lurked.

Love God wished the rules were a little looser so he could risk being plain with Mabel. The guy she should be afraid of was right out there in the audience. Did she know? Did she even suspect?

He wasn't allowed to warn her. Free will and all that. He felt helpless, helpless, helpless. He whispered, "Mabel, can you hear me now? He's close, he's close. Watch out. Take care. I wish I could tell you exactly what to watch out for."

But he couldn't. The moon had come up. Outside the arena, the land was dark. The show would go on until two in the morning.

Cherubs didn't have to sleep. They did it when they were incarnate, and they enjoyed the sensation, but they didn't have to.

He would sit right there all the night, until the last band sang the last number and the roadies began to pack up the gear for tomorrow. And even then, to make sure Mabel remained safe he would stay just a little bit longer.

"It's all right," Love God murmured as if speaking to Mabel, who was far too far away to hear. "I'll be watching you."

* * *

"He's watching me," Mabel told Wendy. "I can feel it!"

Without turning her head very much, Wendy snuck a glance at the skinny guy who had followed them back from the restaurant. "Nope," Wendy said. "Funny, though, 'cause he's hardly ever looking at the stage, either. I think he's looking at somebody up in the stands, or up on the grass."

The amphitheater had seats for roughly 2500 people, give or take a Hardy or a Laurel. But then the overweight ones and the skinny ones probably canceled out. Up on the grass behind the last row of seats—actually not a bad viewpoint—was the "Picnic Seating" area (Grunkle Stan's inspired term) where couples or families could sit on lawn chairs or spread out blankets for the cheap seats.

Cheap. That meant seventy-five dollars a ticket instead of a hundred.

Though Grunkle Stan had other businesses and investments and other resources outside of ticket sales, Woodstick was a mainstay of his income. In fact, he'd had to invent completely new tax dodges to help out with the sudden surge of flood-tide cash flow that came every August.

Anyhow, Wendy said, "I think up high? Last few rows or the grass, anyhow."

"I'll go check it out," Dipper said.

Teek stood up. "No, me. If it's the guy, he'd probably recognize you."

"Sit down," Mabel said. "Dipper, let me borrow your notebook."

"What makes you think I'd even bring a notebook—"

"Doy! 'Cause you're Dipper. Hand it over, Broseph."

Dipper passed his pocket notebook over. Mabel then asked for a pencil or pen, and Dipper supplied a somewhat gnawed ballpoint. "Here's who you're looking for," Mabel said, doing a quick but impressive sketch.

Craning to look, Wendy and Dipper saw an immensely obese figure, a bald man with bulging eyes under scowling eyebrows, his head like one squashed ball of dough pushed down into a larger one. His nose looked like a finger, his ears were small and placed close to a roll of fat that encircled his head, his mouth an angry snarl with one shaded-in top tooth. He had no neck (like Gideon before he'd lost some weight, just a roll of fat), but his chin made a visible arc beneath his hateful mouth and seemed to have a dimple. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt, no tie, his fingers were like a handful of sausages, and his multi-x-sized pants were held up by suspenders. He carried a cane with a globe as the head, and his shoes seemed to be black, from the shading.

"Here you go," Mabel said, tearing out the page and handing it to Teek. "Gold-colored suspenders, gold top tooth, olive-green pants. Gold globe on the cane, it's some light-colored wood. Brass tip on it, what do you call those—"

"A ferrule," said Dipper.

"Yeah, and he always looks _mad_," Mabel said. "When Grenda and Candy and I were, um, visiting in the boys' dressing room after their concert, he came in practically screaming at them!" She made her voice harsh: "That was terrible! You barely even sold out the arena!"

"I think I could spot him," Teek said.

"Go buy a couple of sodas," Dipper suggested. "Get one of those cardboard trays. Then you'll look like you're just bringing something to your date."

"OK," Teek said, rising again.

"Get it in the mobile Shack," Wendy said. "It's open for another fifteen minutes. Use your employee discount."

"Hey, and get a cap and a different-color tee shirt, too," Dipper said. "Tell Melody to put it on Mabel's tab."

"Dipper's tab!" Mabel exclaimed.

"Disguise, huh?" Teek said. He went out by the aisle and headed for the concessions row.

The group on stage, No Moe Dough, all girls except for the drummer, went through one more number before Mabel said, "Here comes my guy! He went all out!"

Dipper glanced over. Teek had pulled on a large, baggy red tee shirt that swallowed him. On front was a black question-mark logo with a yellow border. Though he couldn't see it, Dipper knew that on the back was "WHAT IS THE MYSTERY SHACK?" in reverse colors, yellow letters, black border. He also wore a red-and-black GFH BEAVERS sports cap and—great touch—he must have taken out his contacts and now wore his old round-rimmed glasses.

And he carried a tray with two canned Pitt's sodas and a couple of big bags of chips. He slouched a little and acted as if he were afraid the tray would collapse.

"He's a pretty good actor," Wendy said in admiration.

"Yeah, but Stan makes Soos buy those cheap trays, too," Mabel said, watching Teek pass them with no sign of recognition.

"Don't look at him," Dipper cautioned. "If Bratsman and the guy in the jacket are watching you, they'll catch on that we're up to something."

"Gah! I should've gone myself. I can't stand the thought that I sent my boyfriend into danger!"

"Chill, Mabes," Wendy cautioned. "Teek's a smart guy."

A quarter of an hour crept by. Mabel squirmed. Time passes slow when you're lost in a dream, but it damn near becomes glacial when you're worried about someone.

Then Teek returned. He'd shed the red shirt and the cap—he was carrying a plastic bag in one hand, and Dipper guessed that he'd crumpled it and shoved it into his pocket while in disguise—and he carried the tray with his other hand.

"Gimme!" Mabel said.

Teek handed her a Pitt's cola and took his seat next to her. "I have Cheesy Poofs and Chippy Wippies," he said. "Which one do you want?"

"How can I pick just one?" Mabel asked, grabbing both of the bags.

Teek sighed. "Wendy, Dipper, you guys want a soda?"

"Yeah, we'll share one," Wendy said. "Thanks, man."

With her mouth full of baked cheese and chips, Mabel said, "So is he up there somewhere?"

"Maybe," Teek said. "There are three or four really heavy guys, but none of them looked just like this. There's one up in the first row of the third tier who just might be Mr. Bratsman. I had my phone out and kept stopping to look around like I was trying to find my girlfriend, and I snapped some photos, but they're probably not very clear. I kind of had to aim by guesswork. Let me see."

The first guy was blimpy, but too young. The second one was bald but not heavy enough. The third one—

"I don't know," Mabel said. "What do you think, Dipper?"

"I think I never saw the guy," Dipper said. He had pulled up the story from the _Gravity Falls Gossiper_ on his phone and had looked at Bratsman's mug shot from his arrest in 2012, but the newspaper had never won any awards for photography.

He studied the image on Teek's phone, though. A guy with a shaggy brown beard and wearing a yellow-and-white sort of faux buckskin-cowboy jumpsuit, wearing a white Stetson and what looked like amber-tinted glasses took up two seats on the aisle side of the row—the upper section had stadium seating.

The guy was so large he needed the extra space.

"Could be," Dipper said. "The beard and hair could be fakes, but—I don't know."

"Did he have a cane?" Mabel asked.

"Not that I saw. But he could have laid it down in front of the bench."

"How did he act?" Wendy asked.

"Seemed to be watching the show."

"Or," Mabel said darkly, "watching his henchman, who's watching for his signal to attack!"

"I asked a guard on the other side about that guy," Teek said. "Just asked if he should show him to his seat."

"What did he say?" Mabel asked.

"He thinks the guy's a roadie standing by in case there's a problem onstage."

"Likely story!" Mabel said. "Look, Dip, let's you and go over there and ask him what band he's with—"

"Nope," Dipper said. "If he's innocent, we'll get in trouble. If he's not, we'll _be_ in trouble."

"I hate it when you get all cryptic!" Mabel complained.

"Easy, Mabes," Wendy said. "So far nobody's made any threatening moves. Hang on. Just wait."

Oh, sure, easy for Wendy to say. Keep on waiting, anticipating—what? "I hate waiting," Mabel grumbled, and even Smoky Torches, who had just opened with their recent hit "Something a Whole Lot Like This," didn't cheer her up.

* * *

While, in the wings, Love God muttered, "Let me see that photo."

He closed his eyes and in the darkness the image formed. Obese man, cowboy hat, ridiculous suit, beard, glasses.

"Is he planning murder?" he muttered.

A voice not from inside his head, yet audible to no one else, replied, "Knowledge must be earned by mortals."

That was Rule 1 for cherubs. So was "Don't meddle with human fate." So was "Inspire, don't impel." So was every other rule, the whole set, in fact. They were_ all_ Rule 1—for cherubs. Because none of them could be broken.

Well—not without extreme risk. Not even if one broke a rule purely out of love.

Not even if one broke it for Mabel.


	13. Chapter 13

1**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**13: The Night Has a Thousand Eyes**

"He's doing something," Wendy murmured.

"Guy in the jacket?" Dipper asked.

"Mm-hmm. Don't look at him, Mabes! His phone must've gone off. He's talking now and looking our way."

"How can you even tell?" Mabel asked. "You're not looking at him."

Wendy shrugged. "When you log off a forest, you develop your peripheral vision better than most folks. Always want to see if a tree's coming down on you!"

"Is he still on the phone?"

"Yep. Keeps sneaking glances over here, too."

"Let's go," Teek said decisively.

"Yeah, OK," said Mabel, getting to her feet. _She's nervous, _Dipper thought. Flames of Glory was about to come onstage, and that was one of her favorite bands. He touched Wendy's arm. —_Have your axe ready just in case._

_Always ready, Dip. Let's go. _Aloud, she said, "Teek, you and Mabel go first. Me and Dip will follow along and guard the rear."

Mabel, tight-lipped, nodded. As they took the three steps down from the grandstand. Dipper glanced left. "He's walking this way," he said. "Fast."

"Sir!" Teek said loudly to the security guard. Flames had slipped into the lead-in riffs for its first number, and the four of them were loud. "The guy in the blue jacket coming this way—he's up to something."

"Got it," Bonnar said. "You guys know where the office is?"

"Yeah," Dipper said.

"Go there. Wait. I'll take care of him. Sir! Talk to you for a minute!" It wasn't a question.

They didn't wait, but walked fast out the gate, turning left and heading back toward the RV lot and the office. Stan opened the door the moment Teek tapped on it. "Something happen?" he rumbled. "Don't just stand there with your faces hanging out. Come on in."

He held the door for Teek, the last one in. His desk held stacks of money, neatly arranged by denomination. Then Stan, holding a baseball bat in his left hand, peered out the door into the night. "Seems quiet. What's up?"

"Creepy guy," Mabel said. "He's been staring at us all night."

"Pretty sure he's been following us since we got here," Wendy said. "The dude in jeans and a denim jacket. Kinda a weird-looking face. His eyes aren't right, and he's real thin."

Stan's phone rang, a generic chime, not a personal ringtone, and he took it from inside his jacket. "Yeah? He is, huh? For the festival? Oh, a band? Go ahead and get his info. If you can, get a picture of his ID. Yeah, thanks. Nah, but he's worryin' my niece. Right. Good job." He turned off the phone. "That was one of the security guys. He braced the fella in the jacket. Mr. Creepy he's a roadie workin' for Peach Mood and a couple other bands, freelance. He says he was comin' over to help clear the stage after the last set, which is comin' up in like half an hour. My guy's gonna check his credentials."

"We need to get Mabel home," Dipper said. "I don't think walking is a good idea, and Soos will probably have a full tram—"

Stan fished in his pants pocket. "Here's the keys to the Stanleymobile. No, Pumpkin, let Wendy drive—" he pulled the keyring back from Mabel's extended hand.

Wendy waved the offer off. "Let Dipper drive. That lets me have a little more freedom. Got my axe."

"I like the way you think," Stan said, tossing the keys to Dipper.

Dipper glanced sideways at his sister. _Yeah, she's scared. She's not even putting up a fight to drive Grunkle Stan's car._

But she did say, "Teek, go ahead and show him the photo."

Teek took out his phone. "This really heavy guy is over in the top tier of seats, left side. We don't know if this is the Bratsman guy, but he's closest to Mabel's description."

Stan looked at the picture. "Got a beard on him like a Manotaur. Dunno. I never saw the real Bratsman but once. Can you like print this out for me?"

Teek emailed the file to Stan's computer and then sized the photo down to a four-by-six and printed it out. It came out faded—the printer's color ink might be low, or, more likely, the cheap paper Stan bought might not take a good impression.

However, "Three more copies," Stan said. Teek obliged.

As Stan stared at one of the photos, he said, "I'll see what I can find out about this guy. From what I see here, I can make a pretty good guess at which seat he's in, but up there's general admission, so I can't tag a name to him. But me and my Security guys'll get on it. Car's right out back, parked with the hood toward the exit. You guys cut out before the traffic gets bad, and don't take any chances. Got that?"

"No chances," Dipper said. "Got it."

"Call me soon as you get there. Park the car in the employees' lot. You don't have to come back tonight, Dipper. I got somebody I can catch a ride home with."

Stan sounded casual—but he was gently striking the baseball bat into his right palm.

_He's worried, too._

* * *

Driving the classic El Diablo was a bit like driving a truck. And it was a straight shift, so Dipper had a little bit of trouble getting the hang of it, making it jerk a little when he engaged the clutch, but he took it slow out of the parking lot. Only three or four other vehicles crunched over the gravel on the way out—not too bad.

Despite the light of the waning moon, the night was heavy and dark. When he made the turn onto the road to the Shack, Dipper had to brake for a deer that was ambling up the hill and that, with seeming resentment, finally moved off the pavement.

A few of the concert attendees who had taken advantage of the Shack's low parking ratels had left, leaving maybe ten or twelve empty slots, but Dipper went around back, past the EMPLOYEE PARKING ONLY sign, and pulled in next to Soos' pickup.

All the outside lights were on. When they piled out of the car, Dipper saw Wendy draw her axe. Even at this distance he could faintly hear the beat of music coming from Woodstick. Wendy didn't let him listen for long. "Hustle!" she said.

Tripper, whining, met them just inside the door. He stared up at Mabel, and then his tail wagged, more in relief than enthusiasm. She reached down to scratch his ears. "I'm OK," she said.

Dipper took his phone out and called Grunkle Stan. "We're home safe," he said. "OK. See you in the morning."

"Well—guess you better go," Mabel told her boyfriend.

"I'm staying over," Teek said.

"That's sweet, but you don't have to," Mabel said. "I'm all right now."

"Here's what we'll do," Wendy said. "Mabel, you and me will sleep up in Dipper's room tonight."

"I'll sleep there, too," Dipper said. "I've got my sleeping bag and air mattress. I'll sleep right behind the door."

"Got another sleeping bag?" Teek asked. "I'll take the other side of the door."

"Your Mom—" Mabel begin.

"Mom and Dad will be fine with it," Teek said. "I'll text and tell them I'm too tired to drive, that you guys invited me to stay over, and that she can check with Soos to make sure there's nothing wrong. Tomorrow morning I'll run home to shower and pick up a change of clothes."

"Love you," Mabel said.

A few minutes later they heard the sound of the tram rumbling in. Mabel looked out the bay window. "Guess people are leaving early," she said. "It's not even midnight yet, but the tram's full."

"Is the creep in it?" Wendy asked, peering over her shoulder.

"Don't see him."

Teek ran downstairs and as the concert goers milled around—"Now, where did we park?"—he had a quick conversation with Soos. Before Soos set off for the concert venue again—this time with an empty tram—Teek was back.

"It's cool with Soos," he said. "I told him I'd sleep upstairs. Didn't say everyone else is gonna do that, too."

"Better try to get some sleep," Wendy said. "Nearly midnight, and we have to work tomorrow until noon. Tomorrow's the biggest night at Woodstick—if we even want to go back."

Mabel stuck out her chin. "Yeah, we're going back! Because if we don't, we're just letting old Bratsman push us around. He can't do that to us!"

For the first time in hours, Dipper relaxed, just a little.

Now, that sounded like the old Mabel.

* * *

Midnight Friday. In two days, Sev'ral Timez had, as they say, an appointment in Samarra. Forty-eight hours until they danced with the Reaper. Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes until they faced the final curtain.

They still didn't know that. They hung around backstage, greeting other musicians they knew. Not just other guy groups, but a regular assortment—the Banjo Brigade, two guys who did amazing things with twenty-four strings. It didn't matter that they were from so far back in the sticks that the only Gravity Falls fan who turned out to cheer them was Fiddleford McGucket. So what? They loved their music, and the guys in Sev'ral Timez understood and honored that.

Or the A Capellatones, a girl's harmony group that could make anything sound good. Seriously. They could rock an old romantic ballad or turn a dirge into a hilarious party. And they had dropped hints before that, given the chance, they just might like to go out for dinner and a show with Sev'ral Timez. The boys just couldn't scrape up enough nerve among the five of them to ask, that was the problem.

Nobody disliked the Sev'ral Timez guys—they were so upbeat, so friendly. True, they didn't have a huge number of fans among the death-metal or extreme musicians, but even they would happily jam with the boys.

In short, so far they had enjoyed Woodstick and were looking forward to their turns on stage. But midnight is Cinderella time, and Tad Strange, as he always did, tucked them in and made sure nothing was bothering them.

"Just a little down, yo, because of the whole retirement deal, Tad," Chubby Z. admitted.

"Yeah, we're all having like second thoughts about this leaving the circuit biz, beef," added Creggy G. "Mr. S., straight up now, is this the best for us? I mean, our sales are solid."

"I think it's always better to go out on top," Tad said. "Always leave them wanting more. And besides, this isn't the last time you boys will perform. In every episode of the show, you'll have a new song. And shooting's only from October through May. Next August, if you want to play Woodstick again—say the word."

"Heavy," said Greggy C. "I don't know, guys—would we be like too rusty and junk to give a decent performance?"

"Chill, homies," Leggy P. said. "Music is like in our blood, brazos! It's like riding a bike."

"I wish we could ride bikes," Deep Chris admitted. "We had like zero childhoods, road dawg."

"Think about it," Tad told them all. "There's plenty of time. Let's see how the first season of the show goes before we make up our minds. Everybody comfortable?"

"Straight sleepy, Mr. S!" Chubby Z. said. "Good night, our main man!"

"Get plenty of rest," Tad advised. "And tomorrow and Saturday, knock it out of the park."

"That," said Creggy G., "is a baseball reference, yo!"

"Goodnight, team," Tad said, smiling. He slipped out of their RV, locking the door. He looked around, and yes—there stood Stanley Pines.

"Everything OK?" he asked Tad.

"Seems to be. When are you going home, Stanley? It's getting late."

That it was. The only sounds from the stage now were those of roadies clearing off amps and instruments and stands.

"My brother's swingin' by to pick me up," Stan said.

"Oh, gracious, I could give you a lift home," said Tad.

"Nah, me and Ford got it worked out. I'm just waitin' here until the night-shift guard comes round. I'm having him keep a close eye on your boys."

"Thank you. I don't understand why they'd let an unpleasant man like Mr. Bratsman go free."

"Meh," said Stan, "join the club. I ain't understood anything about anything for years. Goodnight."

"You, too."

Tad left him, and Stan stood listening to night sounds for a little while. Then he heard the crunch of boots on gravel and swept his flashlight in that direction.

The guard shielded his eyes. "Who's there?"

"Me, Stanley Pines," he said. "It's Taunton, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. The shift supervisor said to see you."

"Yeah. You're on until eight, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you should stay right in this general area. See this big trailer behind me? This is the one you gotta watch close. And I mean, you knock off for coffee or a snack or a bathroom break, call one of your buddies to take your place until you get back, get me?"

"You're expecting trouble."

"Nope. Just trying to keep it from happening," Stan said.

And at that moment, he heard Stanford's voice: "Stanley? Are you out here?"

He waved the flashlight. "On my way, Ford." To Taunton, he said, "Nothing happens to these guys between now and Monday morning, there's an extra hundred in it for you."

The guard all but saluted. "I'll keep them safe, Mr. Pines."

"Good man."

In fact, Taunton wasn't particularly a good man. He had a minor problem with alcohol—but never when he was on duty. He'd lost his temper and swatted his wife a couple of times—but he'd always apologized and had never hurt her, never bruised her, never injured her beyond a minor stinging pop on the rump. He could be grouchy, and he wished he earned more money, and he realized that being on the poor side of rich was as much his own fault as anything.

Yet he wept at sappy songs. And he scrounged up some money every week to go to a charity that sent doctors to all the hellholes all over the globe to try to help little sick kids. True, his buck or three wouldn't go far, but nothing goes amiss in the world. So all in all, Mr. Taunton was not that bad, if not all that good.

And he did want that extra hundred, so—

He kept an extra-careful watch.

* * *

And in a motel room a few miles outside the Valley—shabby room, with the door to the adjoining shabby room standing open—Ergman Bratsman peeled off the fake beard, grumbling and growling. "You had one job to do!"

"I'm sorry," Wilmer said. "I coulda followed her, but the guard stopped me—"

"I'm surrounded by incompetents," Bratsman complained. "Look, I've got protection, you understand? I have a guarantee that I'm going to get my boys back. And pay back Mabel Pines for landing me in that stinking prison for so long."

"It wasn't so bad," said Wilmer, who had visited Bratsman at the medium-security joint. That much was true. The prisoners had a library, access to classes if they wanted them, a basketball court, a weight room, even a pool. They had comfortable beds in decent-sized cells, the guards were not inclined to hammer on them, and outside of not being able to leave the premises, it didn't look like such a rough existence.

All Wilmer had to compare were four or five thirty-day bumps in city and county jails from New Orleans to Texas to Oklahoma to Nevada. Those places, they were dumps. Bare concrete platform with a lousy blanket on it to sleep on. Rats the size of housecats. One had once come up out of the toilet in the cell he'd shared with two other guys. Out of the toilet! And the food they got as often as not had bugs in it, either dead or alive.

_Those_ were rough jails.

But to hear Bratsman tell it, his prison was something designed by the Spanish Inquisition. Taco Tuesdays, yeah, but no Foie Gras Fridays! They had a gym, so what? They still made you get out of bed at seven in the morning and turned out the lights in your cell at ten PM! How could a successful guy used to the finer things in life even survive?

Patting cold cream onto his jowls and then toweling it off, Bratsman said, "You want to keep your job, you remember: Bring Mabel Pines to me."

"I don't want to get involved with anything—you know. Nothing major," Wilmer said.

"You get her and leave her to me. That's all you need to worry about." Bratsman gave him the sour look that was the closest he ever came to smiling. "Or better I should say, get her and leave her to me and if you don't—that's the one thing that should worry you plenty, and for the rest of your life. But it wouldn't last long, Wilmer. Understand?"

"Uh, yeah, I do."

As if to make sure, Bratsman glared at him. "It wouldn't last long," he repeated.


	14. Chapter 14

1**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**14: Everybody's Lookin' for Something**

As Mabel, Teek, Wendy, and Dipper struggled to get to sleep—an effort for a worried Mabel, a tense Teek, a wary Wendy, and a Dipper on an inadequate air mattress atop a hard wooden floor—elsewhere, other restless souls were having an equally hard time.

Wilmer, in his own unit of the shabby motel, lay under a threadbare blanket staring at the shadow pattern the blinds threw on the flyspecked wall. It looked like bars of black tilted out of the vertical.

Like iron bars. Like the ones in the jail in Seco, a small town in Texas. The bars that a prisoner who didn't do his share of work in 112-degree heat on the road gang—picking up trash from the highway verge, chopping weeds so dry they splintered to fragments when a sling blade hit them—the shirking prisoner could be handcuffed to the bars, denied supper, and kept spread-eagled in a human X from get-in to lights out. If he soiled or wet himself, he hung there regardless.

Out on the work detail the guards on horseback were the ones who decided whether you did your fair share or not. They based the decisions on whims.

Out on that highway at six AM after a meager breakfast. Work without a break until high noon. A dry bologna or liver-loaf stale white-bread sandwich and a cup of water. Back on the road shoulder until three, another scant cup of warm water. Work until six, then climb into the truck, if your legs had enough strength left to make the step up, and back to jail, hoping that you wouldn't be the lucky winner of the chain-him-up prize that night.

It didn't seem right. To get into this mess, Wilmer had boosted one can of soup, a small box of crackers, and a single beer from a convenience store, paying only for a small bottle of water because it cost $1.29 and all he had in his pockets were six quarters and a dime. Cop caught him just outside the store, clerk claimed (falsely) that Wilmer had implied he had a gun, thirty days in the local jail.

He'd never been heavy. In thirty days he'd lost nineteen pounds, down to one-oh-five. And once out of the Seco jail, he'd walked the hell out of Texas. Took him a month. He'd minded his behavior, had stopped and humbly asked to do odd jobs for food or a little money. Came close to being picked up for vagrancy three different times. He was let go each time with a warning to move along out of the county, and on the blue highways he hitchhiked and trudged his way. The days blurred into a heat-baked nightmare, thumb and walk and wait.

Closest he'd come to settling was with a kindly, elderly Mexican who owned a gas station in a godforsaken stretch of secondary road somewhere south of Perryton. Señor Delgado hired him on at first for some rough-and-ready carpentry—re-shingling a sun-struck roof, taking out a back door that had been damaged by would-be thieves and replacing the doorframe and splintered wood door with a steel one, that kind of thing. Then cleaning up, stocking the few shelves. And Señor Delgado had let Wilmer sleep in the back of the small store.

That job had lasted eight days. Long enough for Wilmer to earn fifty dollars. He kept thirty in his thin wallet all the time—usually having access to at least twenty in ready money kept you from being busted on a vagrancy charge—so temporarily having eighty was like being rich. And he got to eat supper and breakfast with the Delgado family, too, who lived in a crowded house about a mile from the gas station, grandmother and grandpop and two preteens, boy and girl. They had a garden patch out back and grew beans and corn. Mrs. Delgado cooked tortillas and huevos and this and that, simple Tex-Mex fare. She encouraged Wilmer to eat.

Then on the morning of the eighth day, Wilmer had gone to the restroom, which sat about thirty feet behind the gas station and was one bare step above an outhouse, and when he came out, he heard angry Texas voices yelling for someone to lie face-down and put his damn hands behind him.

Wilmer couldn't very well run for it. Around him Texas stretched out flat as a griddle. But he could hide.

He had re-shingled the restroom. He knew where he could swing up into the cramped space between ceiling and roof, where the temperature already approximated an oven set to "roast." He stretched out on a joist, acrid dust in his nose, and found a crack through which he could see the back of the gas station. Uniformed men, three of them, came around, two on one side, one on the other. He glimpsed a vehicle. He heard Mama Delgado wail, "Papa!" He heard the kids' despairing screams from inside a vehicle. He saw the kindly Señor Delgado, his face bloody, his shoulders hunched, his wrists manacled behind him, being shoved into the back of a medium-sized white van, a green stripe with cold white letters inside it.

ICE.

The Delgados did not rat him out. He stayed put, sweating and even praying.

Later, after the enforcement vehicles had left, Wilmer swung down from his hidey hole. The agents hadn't even locked up the station. He staggered inside and drank two liters of water. Then he grabbed some canned meat, crackers, more water, and shoved them into a burlap bag still aromatic from the bulk coffee beans it had once contained. Before he left, Wilmer carefully placed a twenty-dollar bill beneath the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny dish.

He would not steal from the Delgados.

Even after a month of walking, he was still fifty-eight miles deep into Texas. He plodded north without stopping except to drink water, eat a little, or relieve himself. He did not hitchhike. Sometimes he waved cheerily to cars passing southbound. Howdy, how are ya, good day for a walk, ain't it? Here I am with my sixty dollars and my luggage, see? No reason to call the cops.

He walked until can't-see and even then did not stop. He walked under the Texas stars until he began to step over rattlesnakes that weren't really there. He walked for thirty-odd hours without stopping or resting, aside from ten-minute breaks for food or biological necessity.

He nearly fell on his knees when he saw the sign ahead: NOW ENTERING OKLAHOMA.

Ironically, in the town of Guymon he was rolled not long afterward and wound up with bruises on his face, no money in his pocket, and another short jail sentence, but in a better facility, and he was kindly let off outside work detail because of the grisly state of his feet. The county doctor warned the sheriff that much more of this and Wilmer would have to have a double amputation because gangrene would set in.

And either through pity or just to get rid of him, when they set him free the jailor presented him with a pair of sneakers that fit. On his way through the Oklahoma panhandle, Wilmer did odd jobs again, accumulated his precious twenty-dollar get out of jail amount, and walked and hitched, with no destination in mind or sight. And somehow eventually he wound up in California. He was resting under a tree, watching some guys erect a temporary stage for some show or other. A foreman saw him and yelled, "Hey, dude! You wanna work?"

He'd picked up a hammer.

That weekend, he met Ergman Bratsman. Bratsman couldn't keep help, not with his disposition, and so he'd hire anybody. That's how Wilmer became a roadie, working for that minimum wage. And when Bratsman himself had gone into the slammer, he'd followed, living close to the prison, finding work where he could, scraping by, always twenty dollars ahead of homelessness. He'd been loyal.

But now—

"I gotta get out," he told himself.

* * *

Bratsman, in the next room, grumbled to himself, a habit he'd picked up early in life and had never broken.

"I'll show her. Wait until I get finished. Can't get any damn help, that's the trouble. Made a deal, though. Get my boys back, be on top again. Maybe go to Canada. Make some money. That girl. She's gonna be sorry. Just wait. But then Mammonus. Worry about that later. Get out of the contract. I've broken contracts before, hah! All my equipment gone. Damn it, Rotwang died on me. I could run the cloning equipment, but I couldn't fix it or even understand it. Crazy Kraut scientist. Going to rewire his DNA, live forever, and trying to do it killed the idiot. Never get that damn equipment back. No more back-up clones. These five guys, my last chance. Get another five, six years out of 'em, then to hell with them. Contract. Why'd I sign that damn contract? Gotta get out. I gotta get out."

* * *

"Can you get out?" Love God asked.

"Of the contract?" Mammonus asked, rubbing his forehead. "You're not joking, are you?"

"No, I'm being serious." They were back on the grassy hill, reclining on lawn chairs under the moon. The lights of Gravity Falls showed far and bright, like a messy constellation. The amphitheater near the town—at least from this perspective—had only sodium-yellow security lights showing, the seats empty, the stage bare, the spotlights dark. "Come on," Love God said. "Your bunch knows all there is to know about loopholes."

"We've also got the worst lawyers," growled Mammonus. "By which I mean the most skilled with the least scruples."

"Could I take a look?"

"Be my guest." Mammonus handed over the parchment.

"Thank you. Let there be a little light, please." The parchment glowed. "This is really fine print," said Love God.

"You should see the sub-paragraphs, only you can't without a microscope or a small miracle."

For a few minutes, the cherub studied the document. "Looks pretty tight," he said.

"Adamant-clad," said Mammonus. "He's guaranteed to gain control of Sev'ral Timez, and he's guaranteed to do it by coercing Mabel Pines. And there must be a sacrifice."

"I see death is required," said Love God. "Really, I'm surprised at you. Invalidating free will? That's about the most serious violation there is."

"What are they going to do? Send me to hell?" Mammonus snarled. Then he sighed. "You're right, Eros. I screwed up. Not in practice any longer, that's the problem."

"You called me 'Eros,'" Love God said.

"Mm? Sorry, not focused. Cupid, I meant."

"No, it's all right. It's one of my names. Like one of yours is Plutus."

"I hated that. Don't like Mammonus much. Thinking of changing it. What do you think of 'Avarus?'"

"Doesn't do anything for me."

"Not my best idea. Do you ever get tired of all this?"

For long seconds, the only answer came from crickets, which curiously to Mammonus's ears seemed to be chirping "every day," and from the woods downslope drifted the forlorn lament of an old owl howling around.

Then at last Love God said, "I see your point. I hardly ever do my job nowadays. The Internet does most of it. So—I took up a hobby."

"The music."

"Yes. The music."

Querulously, Mammonus asked, "Why do you even do it? There's no money in it for you."

Love God glanced at his old frenemy, just visible in moonlight. "Money is not the point."

"Ouch. That really hurts," Mammonus drawled.

"Being up on that stage, giving your all—making those people happy for a while. I don't know. Hard to explain, but I know what I like, and it gives me a rush."

"Maybe I'll take up embroidery," said Mammonus, accepting the contract back from Love God. "No loopholes?"

"I didn't find any. But I'm not a lawyer."

"I knew there was some reason to have a sneaking respect for you."

"Yeah, buddy, I love you, too," said Love God. He exhaled, puffing out his chubby cheeks. "I guess there's nothing else for it. We're trapped like a fool in a cage."

"Just let the whole scenario play out, you mean?" Mammonus cursed softly but creatively. "This is sick. Say we do, say Bratsman gets his wish and Mabel's sacrificed so he can get his boy band back. What happens then?"

"I can't foresee the future. I'm not Madame Ruth."

"Come again?"

"She's a gypsy. Gold-capped tooth. I taught her to make love potions once."

Mammonus didn't respond right away. Then, slowly, he said, "The contract could be honored to the letter . . . there's not a clause about . . . but that would devastate . . . still . . .."

"Any time you want to start making sense," Love God said.

"Trying to figure this out," Mammonus murmured. "Maybe. But time is—"

"It's short," Love God said. "And it keeps on slipping."

"You're right there. Every time I step out of Eternity and into Time, I'm amazed by that," said Mammonus. "It's funny how time slips away."

Love God chuckled. "There. See? You've got music in you."

"What?"

"Let the music heal your soul," said Love God.

"Who's not making sense here?" demanded Mammonus.

"Never mind. Never . . . mind. You know something, Mam? If you don't try to_ think_ this out—if we just somehow feel it out—"

"Let the heart rule the head?"

"Not _just_ the heart. Heart and soul," said the cherub. He started to hum a maddeningly simple, incredibly catchy tune.

"Stop that," grumbled Mammonus. "All right. Tell me what your heart tells you, you're so smart."

"Heart smart," said Cupid. He sort of half-sang, "Play that song. . .."

"Why don't you do something to help me?" asked Mammonus.

"You can't get out of it on your own, that's for sure," agreed Cupid. "I have to say, this is a nice mess you've got us into."

"Mea freaking culpa," snapped Mammonus. "Come on, tell me what's on your mind. I can see you've got _some_ kind of idea."

"Play by the absolute rules," Cupid said. "But under the rules, let every party to the agreement have a say. I think—I can't see the future, mind, but I _think_ there's a chance, if I know my mortals. And I think because there's a bare chance, there just might be a loophole at that. But I'll have to check with my people."

"Oh, fine. Only leave my name out of it," said Mammonus. "If this goes right, I'm going to catch hell for it."

"Not necessarily. But it's not much of a chance. But it is a chance."

"I give up," said Mammonus, rising and vanishing his lawn chair. "I'll check with you later. Right now, I've got to get out of this place."

He snapped his fingers and went.


	15. Chapter 15

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**15: Ghost in the Sheets**

You might call them nightmares, or you might call them prophetic dreams or maybe you might just call them dreams, period. Different strokes for different folks, as they used to say back in the day. A nighttime vision that makes one person chuckle makes another one shudder. Dream, dream, dream, it's always different each time and for each person.

And some say that dreams are omens and warnings, while others call them nonsense. Are they important or just drifting wisps of thoughts gliding through a night-time mind?

Who's to say? The only certain thing is that up in the attic that night each of them had some kind of dream. Some of these, they couldn't even remember the next morning. You know the feeling—the dream experience is right on the tip of your brain, but you can't quite register it in detail. "I had a weird dream last night." "What was it about?" "I don't remember, all I know is it was weird."

Know what that's like?

Sometimes you're not even sure there was a real dream. Maybe just the dream of a dream. Maybe it's all from your life, or maybe the future is the past, and what you see when you turn out the lights is just a reflected glimpse of a captured time . . ..

It gets very complex, all these things about dreams.

But that night, the important thing is that up in the attic, the restless sleepers dreamed, each and all.

* * *

The simplest and most direct dream was Tripper's.

Dogs do dream. Brain specialists have wired them up and have monitored their minds—watching a computer simulation of Fido's brain as the fluorescent colors dreams play through it like breezes bending heads of wheat, ripples in sanity.

A lot of times a dog dreams of the chase. Even couch-potato dogs. Something is running from them, and they're after it. Then the dog twitches and its legs paddle and the animal even barks—usually softly, _wurf-wurf_, puffing out its lips and sometimes whining because whatever it is that's running, it's confusingly slow enough to catch and too fast to grab, always nearly within reach but never reachable. And the dog wakes up and looks sharply around for the whatever-it-was that outran it.

Dogs have guilty dreams, too. Dreams of peeing in the wrong place, of stealing the family roast off the counter, though you KNOW it's WRONG, BAD DOG!

That night Tripper dreamed of darkness.

It terrified him—not because it was dark, but because it was empty. It made no sound, but worst of all, it had no scent. It was just—darkness, filling up the room. The room was Mabel's, but bigger—and he was not a large dog, so the added width, depth, and height made it like a cathedral. Mabel was on the far side, not aware that the darkness was seeping into the room, like a fog, and Tripper was unable to bark and warn her—it was as though his voice had been taken from him. In desperation, he ran.

But the darkness surged, cutting him off from Mabel, and he knew that if it reached her—

He woke with a yip.

The smells told him he was in Dipper's room, but that Mabel was in the bed. She lay on her side. Tripper crept around until he could curl up in a ball, with Mabel's legs and stomach pressing against him.

_Don't let anything hurt Mabel._

_Bite the dark._

_Keep it away._

But he had the shameful feeling that the dark, like a saucy cat, was somehow taunting him.

* * *

Mabel's dream, now. Hers was one of the irritating kind. The kind she couldn't quite grasp. Sev'ral Timez featured in it, and it seemed like she and they sang together, but then when it came time to take the bows, well, that's where it got odd. Somehow. She didn't remember how.

At least she didn't remember until late on Sunday, when . . . when it all happened.

* * *

Wendy dreamed she was in the shower, angry because she'd forgotten to gather her long hair up inside a shower cap. She hadn't meant to wash it, but now . . ..

The shower was the one in the Corduroy house—only one bathroom, trust Manly Dan to build convenient houses for everyone else but skimp on his own—and for some reason, though it didn't feel scalding, the spray of water was filling the room with fog.

She couldn't find her shampoo. It was usually right there on the corner of the tub, but she couldn't see it or even feel it. But as she fumbled around, someone grabbed her wrist. "Stop it!" she yelled, more annoyed than embarrassed. "Can't you see I'm in here?"

"Wendy?" A guy's voice. And then through the translucent shower curtain she saw a face.

"Get out!" she yelled, furious.

"Why? I just want to know why!"

The voice registered with her then. "Russ?" she asked not believing her ears. "Russ, is that you?"

"You broke up with me," wailed Russ Durham, who looked like a jock but who had the courage of a pigeon. "Why? Take me back, Wendy!"

"I'm engaged to be married!" she snapped, briefly wondering why any former boyfriend would come around to bother her in the shower, when she was naked.

"He's not your kind, Wendy." The voice had changed now. The blurred face on the far side of the shower curtain seemed to be drifting, unattached to a body.

Wendy pulled the shower curtain open just enough to peer into the concealing steam. "Eli Hall? Get out of my bathroom, man!" This didn't even make sense, because Eli had left town three or four years before—

"Gal, come with me. You can cheer me on."

"Stoney, I told you it's over!" Wendy said. Great, now it was Stoney Davidson—wait, wasn't he injured badly in a rodeo accident back in spring of 2015? He had to wear a leg brace now—why hadn't she heard him clomping around—

Voices began to call her name—Nate Holt, Danny Feldman, Mark Epstein (who insisted, "You can't marry Dipper! You and me never broke up!"), and Robbie Valentino sang that stupid song he'd lied about—and all of them were begging, _take me back, take me back._

"Get out of my bathroom!" Wendy shrieked at them all.

The fog grew even thicker, and Wendy flailed around to shut off the shower, but she couldn't find the handle. Funny, the bathtub was so much bigger than it should be—she was walking arms out, trying to find the faucet—

Something dark at her feet. She heard a faint voice screaming, "Help, Wendy!"

"Mabel?"

Then she realized that the voice came from the dark circle—and that the circle, a gaping circular hole big enough to swallow a car, was the drain—she had shrunk—wait, two pale hands clung to the edge—

"Help me!"

Wendy knelt. "I gotcha, Mabes!" She gripped the wrists—

"I've got _you_!"

The voice wasn't Mabel's. It wasn't even human. And the grip was too strong, and the dwindled Wendy felt herself being dragged down into the dark—

"Mabel's going down the drain!" Wendy screamed.

Then she heard Mabel's snore from across the room. And Dipper's breathing, from where he lay in front of the door. And she wasn't naked and wet, but up in the attic, alone in Dipper's bed, and tangled in sheets.

"Oh, man!" she murmured. She had only dreamed of screaming. She didn't even know for sure that she'd spoken, let alone screamed. Anyway, her heart was thudding. She breathed deeply, trying to remember the crazy dream, but the details were already slipping away.

* * *

Teek's dream was one he'd had before, back when Mabel was so fretful and unsure about his going way off to the other side of the continent for college while she would remain in California.

It didn't have a plot. Nothing really happened. It was just him walking toward Mabel, who stood somewhere distant, facing him. It might have been a flat field beneath a slate-gray sky, he couldn't tell, but it was some huge featureless place.

Mabel waited for him.

But the hellish thing was that the faster he walked, the more she receded from him. She was yelling, but so far away that he could only catch something about getting her laundry cleaned.

"Wait where you are!" he shouted, though she did not appear to be moving, just standing there, far away. "I've got to keep on moving!"

And the faster he ran, the farther away she was.

Teek became aware of figures on the periphery of his vision, but who they were he couldn't tell. This was new. The times he'd had this strange dream before, he'd been alone—well, except for the distant Mabel, whom he never reached. But now he was sure there were people flanking him.

Annoyingly, he could not focus on them. Worse, when he looked toward them, Mabel drifted away faster and farther. "I've got to catch her!" he yelled.

And then he ran right up against something invisible, but solid as stone. He could see her, distant and small and vanishing_—_

He pounded on the invisible barrier, and that hurt his hand, and he woke up lying on his stomach. He wasn't standing or running at all—he was prone on the attic floor, and the floor was the barrier—

He'd rolled over in the sleeping bag and off the air mattress. He peeled the bag down—he was in his underwear—and in the dark re-set it on the mattress, then got back into it. He hoped his hammering on the floor had not disturbed anyone—not the others in Dipper's room, and especially not Soos or Melody or their kids.

Not likely. He was over the guest room, normally Mabel's room here. He took deep breaths and listened but heard nothing other than the normal creaks and snaps of an old house settling. After what seemed like hours, he finally got back to sleep.

* * *

On the other side of the door, Dipper did register the sound of Teek's fist against the floor.

In his sleep, it sounded like a knock. And in dream, he got up and went to the attic door, but somehow when he got there it was the door of the gift shop, and whoever it was stood outside and knocked.

"It's late," he said, looking out the diamond-pane window in the door. Nothing there but the dark yard. "Is anybody out there?"

He thought he heard a faint voice: "Let me say goodbye, Pine Tree. Please?"

"Bill?"

Funny, but even with the parking-lot lights shining, he could see no trace of the hovering triangle.

"Bill?" he repeated.

"Pine Tree . . . one last time?"

He opened the door.

And something grabbed his shoulders and yanked him out into the night. And something laughed, but not Bill. This was harsher, deeper, more . . . wicked.

Whatever had snatched him up dropped him. Then he saw Mabel, leading against the totem pole, as she had once leaned when she thought she had lost Waddles to Pacifica—she was still twelve in the dream. And then he saw the creature that had lured him down.

Though he was seventeen, nearly eighteen, wham, in his head he was six again, on the sofa in the old house in Piedmont, terrified. His folks had put on a videocassette of an old movie, one they remembered from when they were young, and it was an odd, odd cartoon, but the music was fun.

It was about the Beatles, and how they took a submarine to Pepperland, where monsters attacked. The leaders were called Blue Meanies, bad enough with their horrible yellow teeth and their screeching voices, but the worst—to little Dipper Pines the very worst—were the enormously fat figures in red fezzes. He hadn't known what they were called then—he'd looked up the movie online years later—but they were the Snapping-Turtle Turks.

The thing about them, they were blue but had human heads, arms, and so on. But their mouths were in their bellies, and when they opened them, rows of teeth showed, and the whole top half of the creatures tilted backward—and—

The things had haunted Dipper's nightmares.

And this one picked up Mabel and opened its maw and was ready to drop her in and devour her—

"No!" Dipper roared, and he started toward them, but hands held him back—

"Sh-sh-shh," said a soft voice. "It's OK, Dip. You were dreaming. I don't think you woke Mabes."

"Gah. Was I yelling?"

"Not so much. I thought I woke you up. Here."

Wendy took his hand. _It's all right, man. We're all on edge. I had a hell of a bad dream myself. That's why I spread out the blankets here. I don't want to sleep alone tonight. I don't mean fooling around—_

—_I got you, _Dipper thought to her. _But the floor—_

_Eh, I've slept on harder surfaces. Just put your arms around me and hold me, Dip. Keep the bad dreams away. OK?_

—_Always, Magic Girl. But I think you'll be keeping me safe, not the other way around._

_No, I need you, Dip. Mm, this is nice. This is all I ask. Just help me make it through the night._


	16. Chapter 16

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**16: Do You Believe in Magic?**

A little before seven on Saturday morning, Dipper woke up. Wendy kissed him softly and whispered, "Shh." She got up, gathered her blankets, and walked quietly back to the bed, her bare feet not making a sound. Through half-opened eyes, Dipper watched his girl quickly spread the covers on her bed (his bed) and then she sat on the edge, stretched, and called out, "Mabel! Dipper! Rise and shine, guys!"

"Nomma gumby neema slee," Mabel said, but Tripper yipped and licked her face until she surrendered. "I'm up, I'm up!" She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and yawning. "How was the floor, Brobro?"

Dipper was gathering up his sleeping bag as the air mattress hissed out its filling. "Not bad, Sis. You seemed to sleep well."

"Bad dreams," she muttered. "Don't remember what, just bad. OK, Tripper, I'm gonna let you out! Sheesh!"

Girl and dog stepped and/or leaped over Teek, who was just coming around and Dipper heard them on the stairs. Teek tapped on the door, Wendy said, "Come in, we're decent," and he returned his borrowed sleeping bag and folded blankets. "Guess I'll go home to shower and change clothes," he said. "I'll have breakfast there and be back before nine."

"Great," Dipper said. "See you then."

He and Wendy no longer had many inhibitions about each other, but they took turns in the shower and Dipper came back in jeans but bare-chested in time to help Wendy fasten her bra. "You're pretty good with a hook and eye," she complimented him as she pulled on her work shirt. "But you may need practice in unhooking one."

"Any time," he said. "I'll put on the coffee."

"I'm gonna stash the stuff I brought up here until we get a chance to smuggle it back to my room," Wendy said. "Abuelita won't vacuum in here today, will she?"

"No, Tuesday and Friday for upstairs," he said.

"OK. Be down in a minute."

Dipper looked out in the yard. Tripper and Mabel were playing fetch the stick, and Tripper showed no sign of anxiety. Dipper trusted the dog's instinct for danger. If something was wrong, he would know it. He could hear Harmony laughing and hurried to start the big coffee maker—twelve cups at a time, and most mornings they emptied it and half-filled it again

When did he become such a coffee drinker? Now two cups a day were his normal routine, and he thought he might get in an extra one. He'd slept, but only with fair success, and he didn't exactly feel rested. Melody came in, Little Soos at her heels, telling her something about dinosaurs. In a moment Soos followed her, and then Abuelita with Harmony.

Mabel and the dog came back inside, she calling out, "Why isn't breakfast ready!" in a tone that didn't make it a question.

Wendy came downstairs and said, "There you are, Mabes! I was just checking to see if you were up."

"How about pancakes and sausage?" Dipper asked.

Everybody but Little Soos voted for that, and he wanted oatmabel. In his lingo that meant oatmeal, but only if cooked by Mabel, who put raisins and other goodies in it. She good-naturedly put on the water to boil while Dipper made a big mixing bowl of pancake batter and Wendy went to the snack bar to fire up the big commercial grill. When you made pancakes for the Ramirezes, themselves, and especially Mabel, you needed the space, or it took forever. Soos did the sausage links in the family kitchen.

By 7:30, everyone was at the table, tucking into pancakes or, in Little Soos's case, excavating oatmeal in search of the elusive raisins.

To Dipper's surprise, he heard footsteps in the gift shop—they had not yet unlocked the Shack—and Stanford appeared, sporting a ten o'clock shadow and looking red-eyed. "Good morning," he said. "No, don't get up. All I want is a cup of coffee and perhaps an orange."

"You should eat, Mr. Doctor," Abuelita chided. "Is not good just to eat a _naranja_ for the breakfast."

Stanford chuckled. "Oh, I'm used to it," he said. He did not sit, but leaned against the counter, peeled and ate his orange, and sipped his coffee. He volunteered to help wash up, but Abuelita shooed him away, and Soos helped her wash and dry. "If you've time," Stanford said, "I'd like a word with you."

They went down to his lab—his cot, usually made up with military neatness, showed that he had spent the night down there—and he said, "I have been researching demonology. I have a guess now about whom we might be encountering. It's still not certain, mind, but forewarned is forearmed."

Mabel, who had perched onto a swivel chair backwards, said, "Four arms would be fun! You could sculpt and paint at the same time."

"Yes," Ford said. He swiveled his computer monitor so they could all see. "Suspect number one: This is Ambduscias."

"Aw, man," Mabel groaned. "A unicorn?"

"Looks like a naked man with the head of a unicorn," Wendy said. "Blowing on a trumpet or something?"

"A medieval representation," Stanford said. "I chose him because he is associated with music. In fact, medieval legends name him as the demon in charge of all the music in hell."

"The devil's DJ?" Mabel asked. "I'll bet his music sucks!"

"Yeah, and his horn's very puny, too," Wendy said.

Mabel guffawed and held her hand up. "Up top!"

"Ow! Not so hard, Mabes!"

"May I continue?" Stanford asked with dignity. "This is only one of three. As I say, he does have a musical connection." He tapped the keyboard, and the image changed. "Now, this is Flauros."

"Aww," Mabel said. "He's a man-kitty!"

Dipper said, "I think that's a humanized panther or leopard."

"This fellow," Stanford said, "is often called on by people seeking vengeance."

"I can see why," Wendy said. "A bobcat once got after me and Dad. They're scary when they're mad."

"Did you kill it?" Mabel asked.

"No. She had a den with its cubs inside, and she was just protecting them. Me and Dad just let her think she'd chased us away and she cooled down."

"Kitties!" Mabel said, her eyes huge. "I'll bet they're so cute!"

"If I may," Stanford said patiently. "One last demon. From what I managed to learn of Bratsman from the online sources, his motivation was always profit. Therefore, this is a possibility: Mammon, the demon of wealth."

* * *

Five miles away, Damon Bonnar's head twitched.

"Something wrong?" Stanley asked. He stood holding a sheaf of photos, copies of the one showing might-be Bratsman. Stan had assembled the entire Security team as third shift was going off and first coming on, second grumpy because it was too early."

"Nothing," Bonnar said. "Just thought I heard someone call my name."

* * *

In the cheap motel room, Wilmer gave up pacing the floor. He could hear Bratsman snoring on the other side of the thin wall.

He had done a lot of things for Bratsman. He had helped cheat promoters out of at least part of their fees. He had witnessed forged documents. He had offered bribes to safety inspectors.

But now—

He couldn't.

He had to.

Sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, at the exact instant that Stanford had spoken the word "Mammon," for first time since he'd lain stretched out in a sweltering space above a run-down gas-station toilet, watching a good man and his family being rounded up and hauled away, Wilmer Gunzell prayed.

Not much of a prayer. Three words

But they were the important ones.

"God help me."

* * *

Love God, who had not slept at all (he did not need to, but usually did because he enjoyed sleeping), sat perched in a tree. He didn't know why. He had just felt like flying in the wee morning hours when no one was around to be startled, and he'd landed sitting sidesaddle on an upper branch of a mighty oak. He just wanted to watch the sun come up, and afterward he lingered there, listening to birdsong and watching a doe and her fawn timidly browsing the grass down below.

His nerves were taut as an over-tuned lyre's strings. He could feel tension building in the air.

Normally that's what a concert like this was good for—it released a whole lot of built-up anxiety, worry, and care. It eased off the tension. Left people feeling a little misty, a little exalted, a lot relaxed.

This time, he sensed, the music alone wasn't going to be enough. Something big, something major, something demonic was building, like storm clouds over the mountains.

One of three things was going to happen.

Divine intervention could stop the storm before it broke. But nobody could arrange a divine intervention. It came unbidden, like sudden mercy.

Or he could fight it out with Mammonus. He didn't want to do that. Mammonus wasn't a bad guy. He was just a demon doing his job. And he was a frenemy. And Love God was not by nature a fighter. Well, obviously not.

Or the building storm could break. It would be a bad one. People who weren't fated to die would die.

And the trouble with a storm in the mountains was not just the terrifying lightning or the earth-shaking thunder, it was the cascade effect. A mountain thunderstorm might cause an avalanche twenty miles away. There could be smoke on the water, rain and fire in the sky.

A demonic intervention, you see, is not common. When one happens, unintended consequences always billow around it in a pyroclastic flow of human suffering.

Maybe because this was Gravity Falls, Love God sensed that any breakout would be terrible. Not end-of-the-world terrible, maybe, but hearts would be broken, souls tarnished.

Of course, there was the fourth option.

Unthinkable, but it was an option.

Should Ergman Bratsman, the instigator of all this, die in an untimely way—

That would be like throwing the emergency brake on a roller coaster.

That could stop it.

But no cherub could take a life. Vengeance, and this was a very clear point, was not his.

And Mammonus wouldn't do it. He might do a lot of things, but breaking a solemn infernal contract was not one of them.

Love God wondered if he might call Mammonus's attention to the one little detail in the contract that might be a way out. He had noticed it and then, thinking it over, had concluded absolutely—maybe it would work.

But, no, just as he could not slay, he could not do this, could not intervene. Could not even hint.

Maybe Mammonus would think of it on his own.

Or maybe not.

And just at that moment, reality twanged, a sour note on a broken lute.

Somebody knew. Somebody had—not invoked, but spoken a demon's name while, and this is important, the demon was in the vicinity.

Like a magic spell, the spoken name reverberated to those who were sensitive.

"Not someone else," Love God groaned. It would be too much for two people to invoke the same demon.

He hoped that wasn't about to happen.

* * *

"Whoa!"

The guys of Sev'ral Timez had remade the living room of their mobile home into a dormitory. Creggy G. and Greggy C. slept on one bunk bed, Leggy P. and Chubby Z. on another, and Deep Chris had his own bunk. He had sat up in it and had yelped.

"You, dawg, what time is it, man?" mumbled Chubby Z.

"It's eight o'clock, dig it," said Leggy P. "Too early, man! What yanked your chain, Deep?"

"Nothing I guess," Deep Chris said. "I just had the weirdest feeling. Sort of a shudder, yo!"

Leggy P. turned over and in a sleep-thickened voice, said, "It's nothing, beef. Somebody just walked over your grave, is all."

"That is bogus," said Creggy G. "That is like straight black magic, dawg."

"Do you believe in magic?" asked Greggy C. from the top bunk.

"Guys," pleaded Deep Chris, "just go back to sleep."

Too late for him, though. The earworm had crept in and he lay in bed humming the old song. And hoping that no one would walk over that grave again.


	17. Chapter 17

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**17: The Moon Will Come Too Soon**

Noon, Saturday.

In thirty-six hours, Sev'ral Timez will die.

But a lot can happen in thirty-six hours. That's 2,160 minutes. It's 129,600 seconds. If seconds were quarters, you could buy a heck of a lot of gumballs with that many.

I don't know why you'd want that much. Gum up the works, maybe.

Anyway, the guys left the stage just before noon, having rehearsed their first set. Rehearsal had some snags in it, but you know what they say—bad rehearsal, good show. They'd gone back over and smoothed the rough places and now they were pretty much set. Lunch was very light—a salad and some fruit—because by long experience, some of it in Multibear's cage, they had learned that munching on burgers or pizza or raw salmon didn't make for a happy performance experience.

They had just finished when someone tapped on the door. Deep Chris opened it. "Mabel, our girl!" he said. "You're looking pretty fly!"

Their slang tended to be stuck somewhere in the eighties or nineties. Just one of those things that made them them. "Thanks, Deep Chris!" Mabel said with perhaps too wide a smile. She'd gone a bit goth, black mascara, black bra top, open long-sleeved black shirt over that, short black skirt—and bright red leggings. Hey, Mabel had to show her colors somewhere.

"Hi, um, Teek!" Deep Chris said.

Teek, who'd spiked his black hair and wore, rather uncomfortably, a black faux-leather jacket and really dark shades, said, "Hi, guys. We just came to tell you 'break a leg.'"

"What?" Creggy G. asked, sounding shocked. "Dude, that sounds straight painful!"

"It's just theater talk," Mabel assured them. "It goes by opposites. It just means, 'have a great show.'"

"Oh. Well, uh, don't thank you, then!" Greggy C. said. "That makes us very unhappy!"

"It's opposite day," Mabel said. "Look, guys, promise me that you won't sing opposite."

"No way, girl!" said Chubby Z. "We sing them the way we learned them, yo!"

Mabel sighed. "I am gonna miss you guys so much! I promise to watch every episode of your show. And if you come back to Woodstick—"

Leggy P. said, "We talked it over and, like decided! We'll come back every year for another farewell show!"

"That's great!" Mabel said, sounding a little more upbeat. "Promise me you'll always let me know when you're going to perform, and I swear I will be there every time for you!"

Teek nudged Mabel. "The music's about to start," he said. "Remember what you wanted to tell them."

Mabel bit her lip. "Yeah. OK, guys, uh, look—be really, really careful out there. Mr. Bratsman may be around, and he'd love to kidnap you. Be on the lookout, and if you see anybody suspicious, let Tad Strange or Grunkle Stan know right away."

The five looked at each other. "We'll do it for our girl!" said Deep Chris. "That is a stone promise!"

"Well—we're gonna go watch the show. See you later, guys!"

In harmony, they sang, "Later, girl!"

The visit had been short, but still—$182.25 in quarters had ticked by.

* * *

Monday was payday for all of Stan's Woodstick employees, and Stan was getting ready for it. Once he would have counted out stacks of cash and change, giving him a chance to grin and say, "Tell ya what, flip you double or nothing."

Nowadays, though, Sheila took care of direct-depositing the money in their various accounts, except for the few who had no bank account. They'd get certified checks. Except for the three who were deeply suspicious of the government, the banks, the churches, the police, the Internet, squirrels, Grunkle Stan, and each other. Those three would only take good old American cash. Except for the one among them who was so suspicious he would only accept payment in gold. Even though that meant a bag of gold dust so small he tended to misplaced it or spill it in his jeans pocket, where it would sift away.

He was sure that the CIA was picking his pocket. Or maybe the squirrels.

Anyway, though Stan could operate a computer now, after a fashion—his particular fashion included a lot of off-colorful language, plus occasional shouts of, "I don't _care_ what I told you to do, do what I _want_ you to do!"—for calculating the payout, less his contribution to Social Security for each employee, less a deduction for accident insurance, plus the occasional overtime or small bonus, he used a good old-fashioned hand-cranked adding machine.

God knows where he got it. Probably it was a friend of Goldie's. It made about the same noise.

Fortunately it took standard rolls of paper tape, and it printed with old-fashioned ink ribbons, which he could still find in one local computer and business machine store. All he had to do was make sure the numbers added up, tear off a length of ribbon for each employee, and write the employee's name at the top with a ballpoint.

He'd spent Saturday morning wondering if he was going crazy.

Stan knew full well that he had six kids who worked the parking lot, each one putting in seven hours a day at minimum wage; Cliff, the sound-booth chief, and his four people, earning somewhat more than minimum wage and putting in long hours with overtime for the three-day festival; fifteen Security employees; Jorge, who ran the lights, and his crew of six electricians and gaffers; and that was it.

Simple. Thirty-three employees.

Yet somehow when he did the calculations, he came out with thirty-four payouts.

"It can't be thirty-four," he muttered, tossing the curled tapes into the trash and starting from scratch. "Let me see. Go backwards. Jorge, twenty bucks an hour, forty-five hours . . . "

The keys clacked, the crank clattered, the tapes curled out. "Something's wrong somewhere," he muttered.

* * *

Stanford was coming to the festival. He was incognito.

Wendy talked him out of the bell-bottomed slacks—where did he even get them?—and the gaudy Hawaiian shirt. He'd changed into a lightweight pale-blue sweater and jeans, plus a jaunty straw hat and shades.

Wendy warned, "Long sleeves are gonna get hot, Dr. P."

"Short sleeves show my scars and tattoos," Stanford told her. "Have you both memorized the chants?"

"Got them," Dipper said. Wendy would have had a hard time—they were gibberish to her—but all she had to do was hold hands with her fiancée to have a mental cheat sheet.

Who knew that each demon had its own personal exorcism spell? But the three chants were different. Ambduscias, in Gnostic legend the infernal musician, might be banished with a spell beginning "_In nomine Domini, non magistrum turpi ab impietate sua usque ad quas eieci te de profundis inferni_."

For Flauros, whose specialty was spiteful vengeance, it began, "_In nomine domini, et omnes angeli eius, obsecro te, quod blasphemus fui, et usurpeth verum pertinet solum ad hoc munus ab Altissimo: qui reversus abiit._"

Mammon's was hardest of all. It involved lighting a special candle and then chanting, "Ploútos, fouskoménos kai apechthís chrysoplástis, sto ónoma tou Kyríou sas apsifoúme." It went on from there. Dipper had been a good student in French, and he had a little knowledge of Latin, but like Shakespeare, he had less Greek. Like none at all. But he had worked hard to memorize all three exorcisms, and then had the bright idea to record them on his phone.

"Got your amulets?" Ford had asked. "Good. Got your consecrated water? Fine. Now, remember, for this to work, we have to confront the entity and splash it with the water as we say the correct chant. If we're mistaken and pronounce the wrong chant, well, ah—"

"All hell breaks loose?" Wendy guessed.

"Not quite. The consecrated water will prevent any of them from injuring you, but the demon won't be banished—it may be able to fulfill its evil purpose if it's targeting the singers or musicians."

"I think a better plan would be to find Bratsman," Dipper said. "He's human. The crosses and holy water wouldn't hurt him, maybe, but we might be able to persuade him to cancel out his control of whatever he's called up."

"Yeah," agreed Wendy. "Give Stan his brass knuckles, and he can persuade like nobody's business!"

"So far we have only the thinnest of leads," Ford said. "I agree, if we can find him, he's the one we should try to bring down. Still, though he himself has no power—no magic or supernatural power, I mean—he may have summoned up a formidable ally. If we do find him, we'll have to be on high alert. He could call for help."

* * *

Ergman Bratsman ordered Wilmer to keep a close eye on Mabel and to tell him the moment she was alone—anywhere. Even in the can. Wilmer had said he understood.

"What's wrong with you?" Bratsman had snarled over breakfast. They'd eaten at a café adjoining the seedy motel, and the food was about as good as the beds were comfortable. Wilmer had drunk some coffee and then watched Bratsman shovel in ham, eggs, a potato casserole, six slices of buttered toast spread with jam, and then—seconds.

"Just not hungry, I guess," Wilmer said.

"Don't go soft. The girl is my leverage," Bratsman said. "If we get her, we can make the guys do anything we want."

"We gonna hurt her, though?" Wilmer asked.

Bratsman just stared at him.

Wilmer, looking down into his cup, murmured, "'Cause I don't like hurting girls. It's not right."

"What I say is right is right," Bratsman said in a deadly soft voice. "You won't have to hurt the girl. You just get us to her—"

"You and me."

"I said 'us.'"

"Yeah, but you meant you and me."

"And any other . . . help I might take on," Bratsman said. "That's not your concern."

Wilmer nodded but didn't speak.

"You want out?" Bratsman asked, his bulging eyes squinting, making him look piggy. "You want me to cut you . . . loose?"

Wilmer shook his head.

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Keep an eye on Mabel and when she's away from the others call you and do what you say," Wilmer muttered.

"Once we get her, you don't have to hang around. Go do something. Go to a bar and get drunk."

Wilmer shook his head. "Don't do that any longer."

"Then go see a movie or something! Give me an hour with the girl and the boys, and then you can come back and not worry about it. Just never ask me any details and you'll stay happy."

Wilmer wanted to ask _Did you do something really evil, Boss? Did you use those books with the ugly drawings and the foreign languages and call on something really, really bad?_

He didn't, because he couldn't.

Wilmer glanced sidelong at Bratsman and wished he knew the nature of his game.

Bratsman looked around, angrily. "When are they gonna take this check?"

Wilmer said, "I think you pay up at the counter, Boss. I've seen other people doing that."

"Why didn't they tell me?" With a snarl on his lips, Bratsman looked at the total, then pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off a couple of twenties. "Here, go pay. Keep the change. And wait for me up front. I wanna go back to the motel. I have to figure some kind of disguise. I don't like the way a couple of people looked at me yesterday."

"All right." It was only a hundred-foot-walk to the motel, but Bratsman had to be driven everywhere.

"You wait," Bratsman repeated. "I gotta hit the john, and it'll be a while."

"OK."

Bratsman levered himself up from his chair and went toward the restrooms. Wilmer took the money and the check to the register, where a guy with chubby cheeks and a mass of blond hair—a surprisingly brawny and neat-looking man for such a slovenly place—stood at the counter. "Everything all right, sir?" he asked.

Wilmer nodded and passed over the money and the check.

The clerk rang it up. "And your change is twelve dollars and—"

"That's the tip for the waitress," Wilmer said.

"Are you sure? That's a lot."

Wilmer nodded. "She looks tired. And she had to run back and forth a lot. Yeah, it's the tip."

"I'll see that she gets it." The guy smiled. "God bless you."

Wilmer felt—warm. Like a glow. He couldn't even thank the guy. He stumbled out into the foyer, tears blurring his eyes.

After a few minutes he looked back for Bratsman. Somebody else was at the register now, a woman. He didn't know where the guy had gone.

He had to get close to Mabel Pines.

But—he didn't have to call Bratsman.

He was his own man.

The glow pulsed within his chest, like a touch of grace.

Wilmer told himself that he could get free of Bratsman. That he was, indeed, his own man.

And that the man he was had no sympathy for the devil.


	18. Chapter 18

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**18: There's No Turning Back**

Love God was touched when he took the stage that afternoon and spotted Mabel and her friends cheering him on. They'd had their misunderstandings, but she looked really happy to see him strut out. And Wendy didn't look murderous, so that was a thing. He waved at the crowd, thumbing the microphone on with his other hand. "Who's ready to fall in love?" he shouted.

The whole amphitheater erupted in joyful response.

"My people! Glad to hear it. OK, right, here's something a little new and brand different. Or maybe the other way around, am I right? Guys, girls, let's hit it!"

The band tore into the intro, and his new song debuted—not hard rock, not his usual raise-the roof high-amp piece, but a strange combination of rock, rhythm, and a tad of CW, the volume swelling and the rhythm pounding like a heartbeat during a fast sprint.

The crowd hushed at the opening riffs, obviously unsure about this new direction. Love God danced across the front of the stage, raised the mike to his lips, and yelled, "Stay with me now!"

The crowd remained silent for the first verse. Then he ripped into the extended chorus:

* * *

You looked for love a thousand times,

Never made that soul connection!

Starin' at that mirror again,

Seein' that sad reflection!

Do you give up? Do you give up? Do you give up?

No!

My dad said, son, it's never too late,

Pull up your belt, step up to the plate,

You may be batting zero, never once won,

But now get ready for one thousand and one!

'Cause it's worth it! Oh, yeah, it's worth it!

When you finally connect, it's so worth it!

* * *

And_ then_ they began to clap along. Next verse and then the chorus again, and this time when he shouted, "Do you give up?" everybody—everybody, thousands of them—joyfully shouted, "No!" Love God snatched a moment to ad-lib, "That's right!" And then on the repeated line "It's worth it," the whole crowd echoed, "Worth it!"

The band picked up the energy and ramped up the noise. It was a fast piece, 140 beats per minute, with the verve of Twisted Sister or Meshuggah, but all the emotion was positive, optimistic, a surge of youthful hope that carried the oldsters right along. It was a swelling wave that Love God surfed, as if he were high on the crest and never coming down, as if he were about to launch straight into heaven.

They loved it.

When he finished the number, he dripped with sweat. Silencing the mike for a moment, he yelled offstage, "Towel me!"

And did a double-take. The guy who tossed him the black towel was Mammonus, not in his Security guard disguise, but in black turtleneck and tight black slacks. He looked completely different and gave a quirked smile and a languid wave.

But the show must go on. Love God wiped his face and tossed back his damp hair, then hung the towel around his neck. The applause rolled on and on, and when it finally ebbed, he bawled into the mike, "Whoo! Totally worth it!"

They cheered. Then he said, more softly, "Hey, how many of you are in love? Stand up!" When they did, he shook his head. "Only about a third of you? Aw, babes, that's not good enough. How many of you have _been _in love? No, stay standing!" He sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling. "Little better, little better. Last question: How many of you are _hoping_ to be in love?" Then he hopped up, laughing. "Everybody! OK, everybody sit down, that was your aerobics for the day. Listen to this next one, and if you take it to heart, I guarantee you, everybody here _will_ be in love one day! You hear me, now? I guarantee it!"

It was another new one, less rock and more soul, and it was called "You'll Be Loved."

Ava at the keyboard hit chords that made you smile even as your heart ached. Lead guitarist Mel comforted and raised your hope. Pauline, the drummer, somehow changed the beat from a funeral march to a stride forward, on towards the better future. Lewis, the bassist, made each step lively.

Out in the audience, couples, and not always a girl and a guy, kissed and put their arms around each other. Some faces glistened with hopeful, happy tears. It was a kind of magic.

As he sang, Love God scanned the crowd. He didn't see Wilmer anywhere, and if Bratsman was out there, he was so well disguised that even a cherub couldn't spot him. He thought he saw Stanley Pines, but—no, probably his brother. Stanley wouldn't be wandering the aisles like that.

Love God sang on, hoping the hope he offered wasn't a false hope. He couldn't help sweeping his eyes across Mabel time and again. She and Teek were leaning against each other, holding hands.

"You will find love one day," he sang, wishing he could break all the rules and advise Mabel, hide her, keep her safe. But, as the King once sang, you might as well ask the sun to leave the sky. For a cherub, some things were just impossible.

But he sang the last chorus right to her and her brother, her sweetheart, and her friend. When he finished that one, Love God improvised again, speaking in a husky voice: "Love. It's the barrier to despair, it's the beacon of hope, it's the promise of tomorrow. Listen to me, now. There's never enough of it in this world, so you go out there and find it! You ready for some oldies?"

"Yeah!" the crowd roared back.

So he finished his set with four of his most popular tunes.

He named the band members, they got their applause, and then he said to the crowd, "I'll see you again tomorrow night, everybody! Be here! And remember, when you find love, it's—" he held the mike toward the audience.

"Totally! Worth! It!"

He threw back his head, laughed, and shouted, "Thank you! Have a great Woodstick!"

* * *

After taking his bows, with the towel still around his neck, Love God hurried offstage. No Mammonus in sight. He paused to catch up with and praise the musicians, who had nailed it, and then said, "I gotta go get something to drink. Catch you guys later!"

He threaded through all the musicians' rigs to his van, popped the back doors, and climbed in.

"This place," Mammonus drawled, "is a mess." He was sitting on the edge of the bed, the covers rumpled beneath him, his legs and arms both crossed as if he had a fastidious dread of actually touching anything in there.

Love God shrugged. "I keep meaning to clean it up, but you know—"

Mammonus stood in one smooth move. "Let's step out for a second."

The two stood behind the van, the doors open. Mammonus looked around furtively, and Love God said, "Wait, wait. You're not going to—"

Mammonus twiddled his fingers. "Shut up. You might not be allowed to use miracles for housecleaning, but I've got no strings like that on me. There, that's better. Now we can be comfortable."

The interior of the van had been cleaned up. It might have been on a showroom floor. The bed had been changed, remade and folded up into the side wall, leaving a bench. The table had folded down from the opposite wall. The van was plugged into the site electric system, and its air conditioner hummed without the annoying rattle that had developed lately. The cool air smelled of clean pine. In the closet, all of Love God's outfits hung, looking cleaned and pressed. "Thanks," Love God said.

"I was thinking of myself," Mammonus told him.

"Well, thanks for the towel. What happened to—oh. I'll bet it's folded and in the bathroom."

"Congratulations, you win. What are you doing now?"

Love God had opened the fridge. "I'm thirsty."

Sounding faintly irritated, Mammonus asked, "What are you getting?"

"Oh, sorry," Love God said, looking up from the compact fridge. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Very kind of you," Mammonus said dryly. But then he smiled. "What do you have?"

"Water, Pitt Cola—you can only get that here—a couple of Rimrock beers, and two six-packs of bottled nectar."

Mammonus looked interested. "Nectar? Haven't had that in a long time. Do you mind?"

"Here you go." Love God tossed him a frosty bottle.

Mammonus caught it and tossed it back. "Now hand me one. I don't want to waste magic cleaning myself up. That's better, thank you." They popped the tops and clinked bottles. "That was the first time I ever really heard your songs," Mammonus said.

His guest still held his untasted bottle, but Love God took a long swallow from his own. "Ahh. What did you think?"

"Not as dreadful as I expected."

Love God raised his bottle in salute. "High praise from you."

Mammonus had been holding his bottle up, staring through it at the light. In a flat, bored, curious voice, he asked, "Do you suppose this will dissolve me from the inside?"

"It's not holy," Love God said. "It's only nectar."

Mammonus took an experimental sip. He took a deep breath. "I seem to be in one piece. I'd hate to be forced to disincarnate before tomorrow night."

"What happens tomorrow night? I mean, I think I know in general terms, but—"

Ominously, Mammonus didn't meet his gaze, but sighed. "Between eleven tonight and one tomorrow, Mr. Bratsman is due to get his wish. However, to seal the deal, of course a sacrifice is necessary. Once that is done, Bratsman holds the group's contract, and Sev'ral Timez, for all practical purposes, becomes his property." He sipped and smacked his lips. "Was this always so fizzy?"

"You can't get old-fashioned nectar these days, unless it's home-brewed. So it's going to happen?"

"It's going to happen." Now Mammonus's voice was dour, disgusted, and weary.

Love God stared at him. "Mabel Pines is definitely—"

"The target, yes. I don't like the fizz."

"Nobody does. Real nectar should be—"

"Smooth and rich. Why do people always change things?"

"_People_ don't make this."

"You know what I mean."

Love God nodded. "Yeah, I do. It's part of Creation, I suppose. When this Universe got started, entropy was born."

"Unsustainable," Mammonus said.

With a shrug, Love God said, "Has to be a day of reckoning. But it means disappointment in everyday life. You can't go home again."

Mammonus moodily added, "You can't step into the same river twice."

"Memory is always better than repeated experience."

"But, damn, they went and ruined nectar!"

Love God rose and took his own empty bottle and Mammonus's half-full one. He drained that one into the sink and then brought Mammonus a Pitt Cola. "Try this."

With a dubious look, Mammonus popped the can. "It's fizzy, too."

"Oh, watch out, there's a peach pit in every can."

"Mm. Well—it's not anything like I remember nectar, mind, but for a mundane concoction, not bad." He drank about half of the cola. "Let me ask you something. That thing you did on stage—"

"The music."

"Yes. You enjoy that? You looked like you were having, and I can't believe I'm saying this, fun."

Love God sat on the bench beside him. "You know how you were disappointed in how nectar tastes now? In how you can't step in the same river twice?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Music's not like that." Love God gazed into Mammonus's eyes. "When you reconnect with an old half-remembered song—the joy's still there. Entropy can't touch that. It's a kind of magic."

"Well," Mammonus said, "It eludes me."

Love God shook his head, though his expression remained benign. "It wouldn't if you'd let it take hold. All you have to do is believe."

"In the magic of rock and roll," Mammonus said flatly.

"Absolutely. Listen to some, not just with your ears, OK?"

For ten heavy seconds the two were silent. And then Mammonus said, "Not right now. I want to talk over some possibilities with you."

"All right," Love God said. "But promise me that later you'll give music a chance."

"Fine, fine," Mammonus said. "But not harps. I remember harps. As long as it's not harps."

Love God smiled and patted his shoulder. "No harps if you don't like them. But give it a try. You know why I like music? Music is love."

Mammonus snorted a short laugh. "Who says so?"

"Everybody," said Love God. And then they got down to tactics.


	19. Chapter 19

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**19: What Can a Poor Boy Do**

Bratsman stewed.

Not that he was angry—he was always angry. The heat was getting him. The wig, the stupid dress. At least he wore flats, not high heels.

He cursed Wilmer Gunzell. The guy had walked away from the diner, leaving Bratsman stranded. He didn't even have the keys to the car. He'd had to _walk _all the way to the motel for his spare keys, then _walk _all the way back, and pushing the seat far enough backward to squeeze his round belly in behind the steering wheel was strenuous work.

But he started the engine and drove the hundred feet to the motel and opened his unit. Then he threw open the connecting door and shouted, "Where are you?"

"Right behind you," purred a man's voice from inside his own room, where no one had been ten seconds earlier.

It made Bratsman's heart thump. He turned around—he couldn't move fast enough to make it a spin—and snarled, "You? Where the hell is Wilmer?"

Mammonus, sitting on the end of Bratsman's bed, shrugged. "Keeping track of your flunkeys is not one of my duties."

"Wait until I find him! I can call the cops and have him in prison like that!" His rubbery, sausage-like fingers squeaked instead of snapping.

"Yes, well, no question of that," said Mammonus. "I'm in total agreement, you certainly could have Mr. Gunzell arrested and charged and, I'm sure, incarcerated. However, since the crimes you know about were done at your direction, and since you recently emerged from prison yourself—"

"I got a pardon!"

"It's not a lifetime pass, though. You could go right back inside. Probably for a much longer sentence and in a much less comfortable prison."

"Can you kill him for me?" Bratsman asked, his round face scarlet.

"Can't. Won't. Not my table, darling."

"Then what good are you?"

Mammonus said, "Do you still want to own the contract for Sev'ral Timez?"

That stopped Bratsman's rant. ". . . Yes," he said at last.

"That effort is underway. You will need a space to negotiate."

"Negotiate? You're going to deliver them to me!"

"Everything must be legal," Mammonus said. "They have a very decent contract with their current manager, Mr. Strange. He will have to sign over his interests to you. Negotiations are mandatory. I can't just magic these things."

"The motel."

Mammonus shook his head. "No, not acceptable. You will easily be tracked to here. We need a place that is completely private. If you don't have one—"

"I was only in this hick town once before!" exploded Bratsman.

"IF you don't have one," continued Mammonus smoothly, "I will arrange for a secure space. It will not be accessible by ordinary means at all. Now, that's when magic can come in useful. I will move each party to the venue and out again, once your goal has been realized. Is that agreeable?"

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. If you don't take my offer, then you make your own arrangements, but you also take the risk that someone will track you down there before our business is concluded."

"But you can stand guard—"

"Not my job."

"Wilmer—"

"If you can find him in time."

Bratsman growled like an animal. The growl broke into a cough.

"You should have a doctor check that out," Mammonus said.

"Shut up."

"Very well. I'll be leaving."

"Wait!"

Mammonus had stood. He didn't sit down but didn't leave. "I'm waiting."

"OK, your place, fine. I don't care."

Mammonus stretched out his hand and one single sheet of parchment appeared in it. "Then sign this addendum."

"Not without reading it!"

"Certainly. Take your time. It's short."

Frowning, Bratsman ran his eyes over the document:

* * *

_1 Addendum to Contract N0T B 666.666-661._

_2 In furtherance of the completion of the contract noted in paragraph 1, Ergman Cheetham Bratsman, hereinafter referred to as the Party of the First Part, and Mammonus, hereinafter referred to as the Party of the Second Part, he being the Vice-Regent of the Infernal Regions in charge of the Third Deadly Sin as defined by Evagrius Ponticus, said parties do undertake and agree to the following conditions regarding the details of concluding the agreement specified in the contract alluded to in Paragraph 1 above:_

_3 A private venue for the final transference of the property in question shall be provided by the Party of the Second Part._

_4 The Party of the Second Part undertakes to transport to the venue identified in Paragraph 3 above, all interested Parties and to transport said Parties back to the mundane world following the completion of business;_

_5 With the exception, that a Sacrifice being necessary to seal the execution of the Contract identified in Paragraph 1 above, the body alone shall be returned from the venue dentified in Paragraph 3 above, while the soul shall go unimpeded to its final destination, with no interference from the Party of the Second Part;_

_6 Upon the completion of activities and the execution of the Contract identified in Paragraph 1 above, all requirements of that Contract shall be considered as having been met._

_Signed this Twelfth day of August 2017, by_

_(Signature of Ergman Bratzman)_

_(Signature of Mammon)_

_Witnessed by (Signature of Witness)_

* * *

"Who's gonna witness?" Bratsman growled.

Mammonus rather ostentatiously snapped his fingers, producing a sharp pop.

A small imp _floofed_ into existence. "Yes, Boss?"

"Got a job for you. Mr. Bratsman, this is Annoyance. Annoyance is a Notorious Public."

"A what?"

"Notorious Public," said the imp. He was about two feet tall and looked like a very dark shadow with two round staring eyes and short horns. Along with an arrow-pointed tail. He took a spectacles case from somewhere, donned a pair of glasses, and said, "I have my seal. Anytime."

"Is it satisfactory, Mr. Bratsman?"

"Yeah, just boilerplate. I don't have another gold coin," Bratsman said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mammonus handed him an old-fashioned fountain pen. "Ink will do for this," he said.

Officiously, the little imp asked, "May I see some identification?"

"Is he for real?" Bratsman asked.

The imp glared. "I work for His Lowness, the Emperor of the Underworld himself," he said. "He's Master of Wrath, I'm an enumerator of annoyances leading to anger. I have my identification. What about yours?"

Grumbling, Bratsman took out his wallet and showed the imp his driver's license. The imp had taken a tablet out from somewhere—it had no clothes and no pockets, presumably—and made a record of the license number. "Proceed."

"You're not going to demand his ID?" asked Bratsman.

"I know Lord Mammonus," Annoyance said. "Sign if you're going to sign. I don't have all eternity."

Bratsman put the paper down on his bedside stand and scrawled his name. Mammonus didn't use the pen, but gestured, and his name appeared in elegant cursive. Annoyance nodded, signed his name, and then stamped the document. "There you are, signed and sealed."

He poofed out of existence, leaving an aroma like rotten eggs.

"All legal," said Mammonus, folding the paper and tucking it into his inside pocket. "I'll get you a certified copy tomorrow. Now, for your disguise, since Mr. Gunzell does not seem to be available to help—"

Suddenly he held a large flat box. Bratsman opened it and asked, "What the hell?"

"They'll be looking for a man," Mammonus told him.

"You want me to go in drag?"

"The wig and dress have supernatural properties. They'll make your face look very different and will make you look less heavy. Or you can just go as yourself."

Bratsman had grumbled his way into the get-up. "This is damn embarrassing!"

"But effective. There, you don't look anything like yourself now. Cheer up, Ergman. Just for today, try to enjoy being a girl."

* * *

Dipper and Wendy were wearing concert camo themselves. Wendy was in a lace-up crop top, black, with impressive décolletage (and no bra beneath it), with a very short black skirt, fishnets, and sandals. Dipper was in a v-neck red tee shirt, French tucked (Mabel's touch), an unbuttoned black faux leather vest, tight jeans, and sneakers. Both wore the crosses, but only Wendy's showed.

They enjoyed Love God's turn, but as the afternoon went on, they both became more and more antsy.

That was a contagious condition. They, and Teek, had caught it from Mabel, who felt so sleepy that she came close to nodding off once or twice, always jerking herself awake with a gasp. Teek asked if she wanted to leave, but she said no. "Is that guy still around?" she asked more than once.

And more than once they told her no, they hadn't seen him. During a slow folk-song set, Dipper went back to the portable potties—there was a line for each one, he saw—and he stopped at the mobile Shack. "Hi," he said to Grunkle Stan, who was hanging a fresh set of tee shirts.

"Hi, Dip," Stan said. "How's it out there?"

"The music or—"

"No, the other situation." Stan glanced at the half-dozen people who were browsing the merch. Sheila was at the register. "Come on," he said.

They went to the small concrete-block building that housed his Woodstick office. Inside, he closed the door. "OK, nobody can hear us in here. Anything happening?"

Dipper shook his head. "The guy who followed us hasn't showed up, and Bratsman doesn't seem to be in the audience. We're not leaving Mabel alone for a second."

"Yeah, Ford's out there, too, ya know. Roaming around. I got him some press credentials, and that gives him an excuse to talk to people. So far, though, nothing. He says he wishes he could pin down which spirit or spookum or whatever is behind all this—"

"Yeah, I know," Dipper said. "He's narrowed it down to three possibilities, but unless we can interrogate Bratsman, or maybe the creepy guy we saw yesterday, I don't know how we could find out which one it is. If it's any of them." He squirmed. "Uh, I really need to go to the—"

Stan, sitting behind his desk, swiveled and pointed. "Use my private washroom, right there."

It was tiny, just enough room for a toilet and a single-faucet sink, but it was clean and smelled a lot better than a port-a-John. He came out drying his hands. "Thanks, Grunkle Stan. That was a life-saver."

"Yeah, yeah, you forgot to tuck in your tee shirt."

"It's supposed to be this way. Mabel says."

"Oh. OK, she'd know."

"Um, OK if we come here when one of us needs the bathroom?"

"Fine by me. If I ain't here, I'll be close by—in the trailer or straightening out some mess. Only don't send her here by herself. Let Wendy escort her, just to be safe."

"Good idea," Dipper said, turning to go.

Stan's cell phone rang, stopping Dipper.

"Huh, Ford," Stan said. "Hiya, Sixer, what's—say it again, I didn't—what? Did you see anybody around? You lost him? Have you checked with—nah, hang on, don't blow a gasket. Dip's OK, he's right here. Nah, he had to use the can, that's all. Yeah, here he is."

Dipper took the phone. "Hi, Grunkle Ford."

"Stanley's always teasing me. I noticed you were gone, and I worried that something—never mind. I just wanted to touch bases. You haven't seen anything of the man who frightened Mabel?"

"No, one of us would have called you. No sign of Bratsman?"

"I haven't seen any portly men who fit the description or match Mabel's sketch. I wish we could lay hands on one of those two. It would help so much if we could learn precisely which demon we might be facing. I'm not even sure it could be limited to Ambduscias, Flauros, or Mammon. It could—what?"

Something, a glass, a bottle, a plate, something—had shattered behind the washroom door, and Stan had yelled, "What the hey!"

"Just a second, just a second," Dipper said, taking two steps and yanking the washroom door open. "Something—uh—didn't break."'

"Mason, I don't understand—"

Stan grabbed the phone and spoke into it. "Call ya back. Stand by!"

"It sounded like glass breaking!" Dipper said. "But there's nothing on the floor or in the sink—"

"Did you write that?" Stan asked, pointing.

It had been done in soap letters on the mirror above the sink. Dipper felt cold. "No. And it wasn't there when I washed my hands."

"Well, nobody's come in through the window, 'cause there ain't one. And no trap doors in the floor or ceiling, so who the heck wrote it then? And what the heck does it even mean?"

Dipper thought he knew, but he called Ford again. "Yes? Are you all right?"

"Nothing was damaged," Dipper said. "But something left us a message."

"Something?"

"I'll tell you the rest when I see you. Let me describe it first."

"Go ahead. Also take a photo—"

"I will," Dipper said. But listen: This is drawn on a mirror with a bar of hand soap. It's a circle—too round for anybody to draw freehand, I'd say—and inside it there's the word 'man' in the lower center. Upper left part, the word 'master.' Upper right, same word, 'master.' Two arrows slanting up from 'man,' one going to each 'master.' Across the whole thing, a diagonal slash line, like the international sign for 'no parking.' Hang on, I'm taking a photo—there. Let me hang up and I'll send it to you."

"Don't bother tellin' me what's going on," Stan muttered.

Dipper texted the photo. "I think," he said, "somebody has just offered us what we need."

"Money?"

"Even better," Dipper said. "Help."


	20. Chapter 20

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**20: If Anything Could Ever Be this Good Again**

_9:37 PM, August 12, Woodstick:_

Love God's turn on stage rocked. He left the oldies and the rockabilly ballads in his van and belted out hard-rocking songs, all recent, all new to the crowd. There were "One Step" ("Babe, you turn me up to eleven / One step more, we're both in heaven"), "Forevermore" ("You said come spend one night with me / We'll wake up in eternity"), and "Psyche Me Out."

All of them were high-energy thrill rides. All of them had everybody in the audience up on their feet. Well, everyone but the heavy lady sitting six rows behind Wendy, Dipper, Teek . . . and Mabel.

Evidently she didn't rock that way.

But one good thing, the music made Mabel's mood soar. When Love God was right at the edge of the stage, three Security men keeping anyone from rushing forward, he all but walked a tightrope along the edge, and when Mabel was air-punching to his beat, he noticed her, winked, and pointed a finger at her as he rasped the lyric, "It's you that makes me dream!"

Ungrammatical, but what do you ask of a rock lyric except that it seems to make some kind of sense at the time and it fits the tune?

"Don't care for this guy personally," Wendy confided to Dipper in the short interval when Love God was wiping his face, "but he knows how to rock."

He was holding hands with her. –_You rock my world, Wendy!_

_And don't you forget it, Big Dipper!_

"You want me to bring it down a notch?" Love God bawled to the crowd.

"Yeah!" yelled at least a couple thousand voices.

"Heck with that, baby!" he shouted. "Let's really RO-O-CK IT!"

The lead guitarist stared a Flamenco-style riff, then changed up with no warning to something the Eagles might have been proud to play, and then the whole group started a runaway-freight tune as Love God knelt, cradling the mike, and broke into "I Fell in Love Tonight" ("I fell in love tonight, that's right, that's right, I'm gonna see it through, 'cause I fell in love with you!").

It didn't matter that not everyone could understand every word. The amplified beat got into their bones, the music, a little sinister but high-soaring, lifted their emotions, and they loved it.

Which, for Love God, was rather the point of it all.

* * *

_At the same time, inside the Woodstick business office:_

"You look like crap," Stanley told his brother.

Hunched in the chair, his eyes red, his chin bristling with more than five o'clock shadow, Stanford said, "I feel like it. Too little sleep, too little food. What time is it?"

Stanley told him. Then he picked up the phone. "Hey, Sheila, where are you? Good. You locked up yet? OK, look, here's what I need: bring two coffees and three roast-beef-on-rye sandwiches. Get 'em from Chunky's, I trust him. Yeah, three booths down from the mobile Shack, they don't close for another twenty minutes. Yeah, that's fine, thanks." He hung up. "Sheila's bringin' us some food. You still like roast beef on rye?"

"Fine," "Stanford said.

"It's on the way. So what's this big deal you have to report?"

"Dipper told me about the mirror—"

"I was here, Brainiac, I know about the mirror. So?"

Stanford sighed. "I think I've deciphered the glyph."

Stanley nodded. "Deciphered the glyph, that's great. Yeah, glyphs gotta be deciphered. Congratulations, Poindexter. What's that even mean?"

Grinning weakly, Stanford said, "I think I know what entity we're up against. It's a demon. It's a bad one."

"So who is it?"

Stanford had taken out his phone and pulled up the photo of the soap drawing. "Do you see it?"

Grunting impatiently, Stanley said, "I see something that could be gang graffiti. What is it, Sixer? Just tell me, I'm the dumb one!"

Shaking his head, Stanford assured his brother, "You've got brains. We just don't think alike, that's all. This is a clue to a verse from the Bible, the New Testament. I tracked it down to the book of Matthew: 'No man can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will hold to one and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.'"

"OK, I can see the two masters and the man and the 'don't do it' circle with a no-no sign," Stanley said. "Now that you mention it, anyhow. But—so what? What does it mean?"

"It's a clue to the demon's name," Stanford said. "Mammon. The word is symbolic of wealth, but from old tradition, it's also the name of a fallen angel. In Milton's _Paradise Lost_, he's called 'the least erected Spirit that fell from heav'n.' He's the one who led the others to build the fortress of Pandemonium, the home of all the demons."

"Uh-huh," Stanley said, fighting to keep his eyes from glazing over.

"In Book 2 of _The Faerie Queene_—you've read that, haven't you?"

"Oh, I read a little of it every night!" Stanley said. "That was sarcasm, Ford. What the heck is the fairy queen? Sounds like a Disney movie!"

"No, no, it's an epic poem by Edmund Spenser, published in—never mind. In it Mammon is a character, a demon who falsely calls himself 'the greatest god under the sky,' the source of all wealth. He tempts people to sin by appealing to greed."

"Don't look at me like that. I swear I never met the guy," Stanley said.

"Well—anyway—all right, I'm tired and I have to get a little sleep, but tonight I have to look up ways of fighting the demon of wealth. Somehow I suspect that Woodstick is tied up in all of this, and it ends tomorrow night. We don't have much—"

The door opened, startling both brothers, who half-rose from their chairs.

But it was only Stan's wife Sheila, carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees, half and half in those little plastic cups, and packets of sugar, along with a white paper bag.

"What's wrong with you two?" she asked. "You look like you were expecting a ghost."

"Not quite," Stan said, stepping from his chair to take the tray, set it on the desk, and kiss her cheek. "More like a demon, but you just saved us. 'Cause no demon would dare come in when we got an angel with us."

Stanford's eyebrows shot up.

But a smiling Sheila put her arms around her husband and kissed him.

Stanford Pines made a mental note_: I will never fully understand women._

* * *

_At the same time, twenty-one miles outside the Valley:_

Wilmer Gunzell was no longer the young guy who could walk thirty miles with only bathroom stops. He wasn't _old._ You could trust him, he was still three years short of thirty, though hard times, tough times, had chiseled his features until you might have thought him a lean weather-beaten farmhand closing in on fifty.

He plodded on. Whenever a farm truck came rumbling past, he thumbed, but nobody even slowed down. He hadn't eaten since the day before, had only had coffee that morning—it seemed so long ago—while Bratsman ate his way through two breakfasts.

Wilmer could theoretically eat, he had a little money with him, but in the direction he was heading there were no gas stations or convenience stores until you reached the outskirts of Bend, and that was still miles away, and besides, he didn't even know that.

He left the road whenever he could climb down an embankment to a rushing stream, cupped his hands, and drank, hoping that nothing had polluted the water. He always washed his face, too. Cold water could, for a time, take the place of sleep.

Somewhere in the dark he plodded along a straightaway that stretched far ahead. He saw lights coming toward him.

Crossing the empty highway meant surrendering thirteen or fourteen hard miles.

But then, he had no destination, and in thirty minutes a car could cover more ground than he'd managed in twelve hours. It meant going back toward Gravity Falls, but on this highway there wasn't anything much past Gravity Falls for maybe twenty, thirty miles, and odds were that the vehicle wasn't heading toward the Falls at all, so—

He took the chance and crossed the center line, then stood on the opposite shoulder. The car was coming on fast and no doubt would blast right past him, and Wilmer would cross the highway again and in an hour or so try to find a place where he could pile up some brush in a kind of shelter, creep inside, and try to sleep.

To his surprise, the car—he could tell from the lights it was a car, not a truck, bus, or motorcycle—slowed. He tried to look harmless, hooked his thumb up, and magic happened.

The car pulled off onto the shoulder. The passenger window rolled down as if by magic. A lazy voice said, "Climb in."

He hustled. "Thanks, Mister," he said.

"Buckle up."

"Yes, sir."

He couldn't make out the figure behind the wheel very well. Tall guy, thin, wearing dark clothes, wearing glasses. "Don't call me 'sir,'" his benefactor said, but he didn't sound angry.

The seatbelt clicked. The driver pulled back onto the highway. "If you're hungry, there's a bag with a couple of hamburgers in it down beside your feet, and a cup of coffee in the cup holder. I got them but decided I didn't want them. You're welcome to it."

On the verge of declining, Wilmer caught the scent of food. "Thanks," he said. He moved his feet and heard the rustle of the bag. Two small burgers inside, nothing special, just the basic MacDougalds' fare, but they were fresh and hot, and he devoured them in less than a minute. The coffee had cream and sugar, exactly the way he liked it. "Thank you, Mister," Wilmer said gratefully. "I can pay you—"

"Not necessary. Just put all the wrappers and the empty cup in the bag. Where are you going?"

Wilmer finished the coffee and put the trash into the bag. "Anywhere."

"Oh, then I could stop and let you out right now," the man said. "Seriously—but what's your name?"

Wilmer thought for maybe five seconds. "Walter Ganwell." One of his fellow convicts had once advised him, "You got to make up a fake name, make up one that kinda rhymes with or sounds like your own. Easier to remember."

"Walter," the driver said. "I'm John Cash. No relation."

Wilmer chuckled, though it wasn't all that funny. Something worried at his mind, though. "Mr. Cash," he said.

"Seriously," Cash continued, as if there had been no interruption, "what's your goal? I can't just drive for the horizon. We'd never make it."

"I just . . . want to get away," Wilmer said, feeling more and more nervous.

"Have you broken the law?" Cash asked.

"No. Not this—no," Wilmer said. "There's just—a place I don't want to be anymore."

"If you don't have a place to go, at least tell me where you don't want to be. That's a start."

The voice clicked. "Are you a policeman?" Wilmer asked. "Or a Security man?"

The driver laughed at that. "Me? Oh, hell, no. I'm just a random man driving a Dodge Challenger SRT."

Wilmer relaxed a little. The voice was reminiscent of the Security guard who had rousted him, but—not the same. It had one of those unplaceable accents, maybe-Boston, maybe-London, what did you call it? He'd once seen an Internet video about that kind of speech, "Why Do People in Old Movies Talk Funny?" Oh, yeah, the guy in the video called it a mid-Atlantic accent. That was it. The driver, Cash, sounded like an actor in a 1930s movie, maybe the hero, maybe the suave villain. Not at all like the Security guy.

"Nice car," Wilmer said.

"Just got it recently. A 2015 model. They call it the Hellcat."

"Well, sir—I mean Mr. Cash—where are you headed?"

"I haven't made up my mind. Are you running from something, Walter?"

"More from someone," Wilmer said. "My old boss."

"Mm. He hard on you?"

"Yeah," Wilmer admitted. "He wants me to do stuff that—that I don't want to do. It's wrong."

"I know how you feel," Cash said. "I work for a boss from hell, myself. What does this fellow want from you? You can tell me everything."

"He wants me to kidnap a girl for him," Wilmer said. And he started to talk. Funny, but somehow after the ride was over, he had absolutely no memory of just what he said—he could remember talking, but no details.

Nor did he remember their making the turn or their driving beneath the illuminated WELCOME TO GRAVITY FALLS sign.

Or Mr. Cash stopping the car. He could remember opening the door and hearing Mr. Cash wish him luck.

"That dark-blue Lincoln in the staff parking lot," Cash said. "It isn't locked. Just get in the passenger seat and wait. He'll be along in twenty minutes."

"OK," Wilmer said, as if it had all been his idea.

He went to the car—a vintage auto—and turned to wave.

Mr. Cash and his Hellcat were gone. Yet he hadn't heard the engine rev up or the crunch of gravel—or had he?

Wilmer didn't know. He opened the door—unlocked, as promised—and hesitated for a moment.

A wisp of song flitted through his mind: _Open up, I'm climbing in_.

He sat in the car, in the dark, and waited for whatever was going to happen.

At the moment, the guys of Sev'ral Timez had twenty-four hours and three minutes to live.


	21. Chapter 21

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**21: Everybody's Talking**

There's something in a Sunday.

And since midnight had come and gone, and this old world had kept on turning, yeah, it was Sunday morning. Technically. Just very early.

The vendors had closed down and locked up by 11:00 PM, back when it was Saturday. People had been leaving, walking back to their cars to avoid the crush, since shortly after that. The crowd had completely ebbed away from Woodstick by 12:50 AM on Sunday. A few minutes past 1:00 AM, Stanley and Stanford locked up the office. "Hey," Stan said to his brother, "you're worn out. You want me to drive you home? I'll be comin' back tomorrow morning early anyhow for the last day of Woodstick, give you a lift back so's you can get your car then."

"Kind of you," Stanford said. "But I'd rather drive home myself. It's not that far, and if you want you can follow me and give me a blast on the horn if I start to weave. But I think I'm all right to drive that far, anyway. Then I'm going to drop into bed for at least four hours of sleep."

"That's not enough," Stan said.

"I got by on less than that out in the Multiverse. Take care, Stanley."

In the misty glare of the security lights, Stan walked back to his car. Stanford's was close by because he had parked on the grass margin of the graveled lot near the exit, technically illegally, but nobody was about to hand out tickets in the VIP lot. Pushing his spectacles up and rubbing his eyes, he unlocked the driver's side door of his car and bent to enter. Then—

"Who are you?" he demanded, every nerve alert.

The thin fellow in the passenger seat stirred, yipped, and jumped. "I—oh, I went to sleep. I, I, I was supposed to wait for you—Mr. Pines? I didn't even know this was your car—"

"Supposed to wait for me? Who are you?" Ford asked, slipping behind the wheel.

The man's voice was hoarse and nervous: "My name's Wilmer Gunzell. I've been working for Ergman Bratsman, but I walked out on him this morning. I'm here because . . . I think I need to talk to you?"

He sounded so tentative that Ford made an instant decision. "Fasten your safety belt," he said. He still used a few terms that were current when he'd disappeared into the Portal but while he was away some of the words had changed. When he'd bought his first Lincoln, the restraint had been called a "three-point safety belt," and though in 2017 to everyone else they were just "seat belts," he had some difficulty adjusting. Like he still called his mobile phone a "computer phone."

Wilmer clicked the belt, which would prevent his changing his mind and jumping out of the car. Ford immediately started the engine. "What's Bratsman up to?" Ford asked. He no longer felt the least bit sleepy, but in the rear-view mirror he saw Stanley faithfully following along behind.

"It's something to do with getting Sev'ral Timez back," Wilmer said. "I think for some reason he wants to kidnap a girl named Mabel Pines—" he broke off in confusion. "I didn't think. Related to you?"

"My great-niece," Ford said.

"Oh. That's why he made me wait for you."

"Who made you wait?" Ford asked sharply—more brusquely than he'd meant. "Bratsman, you mean?"

"Oh, God, no!" Wilmer blurted. "If he knew I was talking to you, he'd kill me!"

It sounded as though Gunzell believed that. "Who told you, then?"

"This sounds so dumb. I don't know. Somebody told me, though, a guy who picked me up hitchhiking."

Instead of going to his own home, Ford drove to the Shack. It was dark, though the outside parking-lot lights shone bright. Two or three cars that had parked for Woodstick still waited in the lot. Ford glanced inside one, turned away quickly, and said, "I think a few people are, uh, sleeping in these tonight," even though the two young people he'd spied definitely were not asleep. "Is one of these cars Bratsman's?"

Gunzell looked around, rubbing his eyes and blinking. "No, I know his car, I was his driver. No, none of these."

"Come on inside." They went in through the family entrance, and Ford locked both the knob lock and the deadbolt—the kind that required a key both inside and outside. "Wait here just a moment," he said. He went to the gift shop, opened the secret door to the lab, and snatched a Mystery Shack tie off a rack. He returned to Wilmer and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to ask you to wear this as a blindfold."

"All right," Wilmer said.

Ford blindfolded him—and in his time in the Multiverse, he had learned to securely blindfold anything up to a creature with nine eyes—and then said, "Here hold onto my arm. I'll lead you."

At the open doorway, Ford stopped Gunzell and said, "Slide your right foot forward. There are steps. There, feel the edge? Step down. Hold onto my arm, I won't let you fall. Twelve more steps. One, two, three . . .."

At the bottom, Ford pressed the button that closed the vending-machine door. The laboratory lights came on automatically. "Forward. Stop for a moment. There, this is an elevator. Step forward. One more step. Fine. We're going down one floor, and you can take off the blindfold."

Wilmer did. In the fluorescent light, he looked bad, too skinny, his forehead too wrinkled, his skin shiny and speckled with flecks of road grime. "Where are we?" He asked. Then he blinked. "Oh, I guess that was what the blindfold was for, huh?"

"This way," Ford said. They went to the secure cubicle where Ford slept when he spent a night in his lab. "Do you want to, ah, shower?"

"I'd appreciate it," Wilmer said. In the car he'd begun to smell himself. A walk like the one he had made caused a man to sweat.

Ford showed him to the compact bathroom, toilet, sink, tiny shower stall barely large enough for a man to turn around in—though a thin fellow like Gunzell wouldn't have much of a problem—and left him soap, a heavy towel, and a bathrobe. "Toss your clothes outside the door. I'll clean them," he said.

"You don't have to—"

"No trouble, and it'll take only twenty minutes," Ford said.

The washer/dryer was one of Fiddleford McGucket's inventions. Too complex and expensive for retail sale, it used polymer beads instead of water (though a small amount of water later cleaned the beads) and once a load was clean, the beads tumbled into a collection bin for later, and the clothes dropped into a fast-drying compartment that used heated air, rapid tumbling, and infra-red light. Ten minutes in the wash, ten minutes to dry, and clothes emerged clean and fresh.

It took Wilmer about ten minutes to shower. He came out of the bathroom swaddled in a thick terrycloth robe, looking a little less miserable. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it. Your outfit will be dry in a few minutes. Are you hungry? I have some MREs here, not for doomsday, but just for when I spend a lot of time here. They're not haute cuisine, but they're edible."

"No, I had some burgers earlier," Wilmer said. "Mr. Cash gave them to me."

"Mr. Cash?"

"John Cash," Wilmer said. "The guy who gave me a ride."

Ford, no particular fan of any kind of music, had heard of the singer. "John Cash as in 'Ring of Fire?'" he asked.

"I . . . no, not the country-western guy. Just a guy. He gave me a ride into town." Wilmer licked his lips. "I could use some water."

Ford poured him a tall, cold glass. "Tell me what you know about Ergman Bratsman and his plans," he said, covertly pressing a button that would record Wilmer's tale. "First, let me make sure I have your name right. Mr. Wilmer Gunzell, correct?"

"Yeah. I—see, I was in jail a few times. Nothing big, but thirty-day stretches, you know, some shoplifting when I was broke and hungry, loitering when I slept in a park because I had no money, stuff like that. And then one day about seven or eight years ago, I got a job with Mr. Bratsman down in California . . .."

By the time Wilmer had finished his story, his clothes were dry, and Ford gave him privacy to change back into them. "These are real clean," he said as he opened the door. "Thank you, Mr. Pines. You run the festival, right?"

Ford blinked. "Oh. No, that's my brother. I'm Dr. Stanford Pines. He's Mr. Stanley Pines. Confusing, I know."

"You're not the promoter? I don't know why Mr. Cash wanted me to wait in your car, then," Wilmer said.

Ford observed how unsteady Gunzell looked, swaying a little, drunk with exhaustion. "I think I do. You look fatigued. Stretch out here on the cot and try to sleep. But first, let me ask you just a few questions. Has Mr. Bratsman ever mentioned someone named Mammon? Or Mammonus?"

Gunzell's lips silently repeated the name. "I don't think so. I'm the only one working for him."

"Has he said anything about other helpers? Someone who'll aid him in getting the band back?"

Wilmer thought. "He's kind of hinted at it. Like he's got some, I don't know, buddies who might help him out."

"I see. Well, you rest here. Blankets are folded at the foot. I'm going to lock this room, for your own safety—there are devices here no one should touch. If you need anything, look over here, on the wall. This is an intercom. It connects directly to my phone. Press the button once to call. I won't be very far away, and I can be here in a matter of a minute or so. Is that acceptable?"

Wilmer could barely nod. Sleep fell on him like a warm blanket, and when Ford switched off the light, he was already dozing. He didn't even hear the key turn in the lock.

* * *

Ford tiptoed up to the attic, where Teek leaped up from the floor. "Who's there?"

"Just me," Ford said quietly as he switched on the landing light. "Good work though, standing sentry like that. I need to speak to Mason."

He tapped on the door, and from behind it, Dipper asked cautiously, "Who is it?"

"Me, Stanford," Ford said. "I have some news."

Dipper cautiously opened the door just a crack, and Ford glimpsed Wendy close behind him, grasping her axe. "Prove you're my Grunkle Ford," Dipper said.

Ford smiled. Ah, the good old Pines paranoia. It paid off surprisingly often. "I wrote an article about the Woodpecker Trap Tree based on your notes and photographs," he said. "We took joint credit for it when it appeared in the _Journal of Zetetic Botany_, Summer 2014 issue. Your first publication."

"OK." Dipper came out in tee shirt and jeans, but barefoot. "Will I need shoes?"

"No. Come to the lab."

Teek sat with his back against the door. "I'll wait up until you get back."

Downstairs, Ford and Dipper remained on the top level of Ford's laboratory. At a computer, Ford replayed the words of Wilmer Gunzell. "What do you make of that?" Ford asked.

"It sounds like Bratsman's mad at Mabel for persuading the Sev'ral Timez guys to run away," Dipper said. "What's he planning to do? Grab her and threaten her unless they come back?"

"That, or something more dire," Ford said. "Thanks to your discovery of that odd glyph, I'm nearly a hundred per cent persuaded that we're facing specific demonic interference. I'm guessing now, but if Bratsman summoned up the demon Mammon to help him, that's what we're up against."

Dipper frowned. "Mammon? So—wait, what makes you so sure?"

Ford pushed his glasses back into place. "I'm not certain, not absolutely. But it does make sense. Bratsman has always been a man motivated by a love of money. You heard how little he paid Mr. Gunzell to be his factotum. Excuse me, perhaps flunkey would be more apropos. And if Gunzell is right, Bratsman has considerable sums of ill-gotten gains stashed away. The Sev'ral Timez men have become moneymakers again, and that's a great part of his motivation. The rest is sheer spite. Gunzell says that Bratsman never gives up a grudge."

Dipper nodded. "Gunzell left out a few things, though. Where is he?"

"Down on the secure level."

"What!" Dipper looked shocked. "Grunkle Ford, there's so much he could—"

"He's locked in my emergency shelter," Ford said. He yawned. "I'm sorry to ask you this, but could you possibly stay down here for two hours? I've got to get a little sleep myself. If Gunzell calls, this intercom will let you talk to him. I'm taking the key to the secure shelter, so you can't let him out, if he asks. The intercom will also relay to my phone. I'm going to bunk in the guest room for a little bit of sleep. Oh, one more thing."

Dipper waited expectantly.

Slowly, Ford said, "Gunzell tells me that a man named John Cash advised him to wait for me, evidently to provide him protection against Bratsman."

"So?" Dipper asked.

"Cash. Mammon today generally means 'wealth.' Why would Bratsman's demon send Gunzell to me? If Gunzell should call, don't go downstairs. Wait for me. Trust no one, Mason. Trust no one."

Dipper nodded. He had heard that before.

Ford yawned. "We'll puzzle it out later. Right now I have to get some sleep. Then I'll come and relieve you. I have work to do down here."

"What?" Dipper asked.

"Why, I have to discover how to send a demon back to hell," Ford said.

In Gravity Falls, that made sense.

* * *

Ergman Bratzman woke up from a sound sleep to screech like an alarmed ferret. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Mammonus, standing by his bedside in the yellow glow of an inadequate bedside lamp said, "Getting ready for the big night tomorrow. Almost everything is in order. Here are the agreements for, well, we'll call it shipping and disposal—"

Bratsman, his voice still sleep-slurred, muttered, "For what?"

Mammonus sighed. "You want safe passage for the boys in the musical group, yes? No one trying to stop you until you take them to your place of business? And after the, um, necessity that must seal the deal, you don't want a mangled body showing up at Woodstick, inviting an investigation? The death must be obviously from natural causes. Trust me, the police are damnably inventive. Even an eyelash could give them enough DNA to identify and involve you."

"What, what, you wake me up for this crap?" Bratsman snarled. "You handle this!"

Sorrowfully, Mammon said, "Well, if you don't want to take precautions—"

"Who said I didn't? What do you want now?"

"It's three documents requiring just your signature. If you care to read them—"

"Gimme," Bratsman said.

Mammonus handed him three brief typed sheets and a ballpoint. "On the bottom line," he said, helpfully opening the bedside table drawer. "There's a book if you need something to rest them on."

Bratsman himself took out the Gideon Bible.

"I'll wait while you read them through—" Mammonus said.

"Here!" Bratsman practically slashed his signature once, twice, three times, then thrust the papers toward his visitor. "Now can I sleep?"

Mammonus took the three sheets back. "Of course. No, no, keep the pen. I won't bother you again. But I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Get out of here!" barked Bratsman.

"Pleasant dreams," Mammonus said. And he snapped his fingers and was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**22: Highway to the Danger Zone**

The Shack was closed on Sundays, so all that morning a still-weary Ford had time to drill Teek, Wendy, Dipper, and most of all Mabel in ways of warding off the power of Mammon and—he hoped—of outright banishing him to the outer darkness. The only trouble was that he did not have time or resources to do the research that would prove whether any of these actually worked.

He had printed out, on clear decal sheets, circles about the size of a quarter with a hand-drawn symbol, which looked like a somewhat misshapen capital B with extra hooks and flourishes at the top and bottom of the vertical stroke. Mabel had cut them out and gued them to cardboard circles to which she attached pins, so they could be worn like buttons.

"This is the sigil of Mammon," Ford explained, holding his up. "There's a whole ritual, but it seems little of it is necessary. The candles, magic circle, incense, all that we can dispense with, but this and the chant really are all that is required. By the way, this symbol isn't a repellent—it's just to get his attention. He's supposed to be a vain demon."

The chant, for a change, was in English, not some old dead language. It wasn't too hard to remember:

* * *

Mammon, spirit of greed, you have no hold on me. May the forces of Good counter your evil intent. With Right on my side and trust in Heavenly powers, I banish you. Leave this place and trouble us no more.

* * *

"Seems kinda tame," Wendy observed as they all memorized the words.

"The literal meaning isn't as important as the intent behind it," Ford said. "Use this to focus your mind. Your purity of motive is crucial. That's what will prevent Mammon from controlling the situation, not the mere words."

At breakfast, a shy Wilmer Gunzell tried to help, volunteering to clean up, wash dishes, and do anything else to earn his keep. Soos, all kindness, said, "Dude, you've had like a hard time or some junk, we can tell. Leave it up to us, OK?"

And when Soos invited Wilmer to Mass with the family, the man had to turn away to hide his expression. When he finally answered, Wilmer said hoarsely, "I don't have any decent clothes."

He wore his usual outfit—jeans and a short-sleeved chambray work shirt, with a BRATZ PRODUCTIONS tee shirt under it, the one he wore when he was Bratsman's only roadie.

"Aw, man," Soos said, "our church is, like, not all that formalized, you know? But if you want, you can, like, have one of our ties to wear. They're great, black silk-like material with a bright yellow question mark on them, and you can turn 'em inside-out and the reverse has this picture of the Shack! See, the question mark means 'What is the Mystery Shack?' and turning the tie inside-out, like, answers that question! But it's a secret, dude. Don't tell people I told you."

"Well—I'm not Catholic," Wilmer said reluctantly.

"Dawg, everybody's welcome!" Soos said cheerfully. "We once had a Gnome come, and you're closer to Catholic than he was!"

In the end, he shyly agreed—after Ford had privately told him, "That's one place Bratsman would never look for you." And although it was a little tight on him, he borrowed a dark-blue blazer from Dipper—it was close, maybe only one size too small, and it didn't look half-bad.

"Is he going to be OK alone?" Dipper asked after Wilmer and Soos's family had left.

"Stanley is going to take care of him today," Ford said. "I think until this demon business is settled, no one's going to be completely safe—but we'll take every precaution."

* * *

Love God was up and about early that day. He and Mammon conferred once more.

"You can't just drop this?" Love God asked.

"Not with all the paperwork completed and filed. There would be serious questions from lower down."

Love God shook his head. "I'll bet now you wish your guys had never invented bureaucracy."

"It comes in handy," Mammon said. "The devil's henchmen. Suits and ties. So boring and ordinary no one suspects."

"Megadeath?" asked Love God.

"Pardon?"

"You just quoted Megadeath."

Mammon frowned. "I don't even know what that is. Anyway, to answer your question, no, I cannot call it off. The moving finger writes and moves on. Now, that was a quotation."

Love God asked, "Was it? Not very cadenced. What group?"

"Omar Khayyam, by way of Edward FitzGerald," said Mammon.

"Edmund FitzGerald," corrected Love God. "Gordon Lightfoot. But I don't remember that lyric."

"I think," Mammon said, closing his eyes, "we are talking about at least two different things. Anyway, ideally everything would consummate at midnight. I've arranged a null time space, and that should accommodate everyone."

"Well, of course it will," Love God said. "It's infinitely expandable and out of the time flow. You realize that if you let Bratsman sacrifice Mabel you'll be on the shortlist for ultimate retribution."

"I'm always on someone's list," Mammon said. "I'm trying to deal with that. I need luck on my side, but I have slim hopes."

"I'll stop you if I can."

"Yes, well, let's talk about that. First, you understand that if I violate the agreement, I'll be yanked back down so fast that I'll probably crash-land in the ninth circle. And stay there. I mean, I hate to piss off the good guys, but upsetting my crowd doesn't even bear thinking about. Here's exactly that I'm trying to do . . .."

Had they been conversing in normal circumstances, they would have chatted for four hours, and Lazy Susan probably would have chucked them both out of Greasy's. But null time doesn't work like that. Physically, they sat in a corner booth of Greasy's Diner that morning, having each ordered a coffee. Subjectively, they nursed their two coffees for four hours and a few minutes as they talked. Objectively—to Susan and the diner customers around them—they sat for five minutes, drank their coffee, and left, Love God leaving Lazy Susan a tip of five dollars and Mammon clandestinely pocketing the bill as he left the table.

However, that was just the kind of thing that Mammon did, and Love God, though he did not witness the snitching of the five-dollar bill, had expected it, so he stopped, complimented Lazy Susan on the coffee (which was not in fact all that good) and slipped her a ten.

Then cherub and demon paused for a moment in the bright morning sunshine outside the diner. Mammon said, "Looks like a good day for the concert."

"Quiet right now," Love God said. "But I see the storm getting closer. Let's hope we can both weather it."

* * *

Sev'ral Timez rehearsed its last set of the show that morning. The guys had more hope now—they had not spotted Bratsman, and they were starting to think they might get out of this with no ugly encounters.

After some negotiations with Tad Strange, Stan had scheduled them to close out the festival, taking the stage at midnight for a ten-song wrap-up of their career, starting with two golden classics from their Bratsman days, "Cray-Cray" and "Come On, Baby," and then four from their comeback year (including two lesser-known songs they composed while living with Multibear, "Sticky Honey" and "Just Woke Up"), and finally their three biggest hits from recent years, ending with a farewell anthem.

"Yo," Deep Chris said, "this is gonna be straight sad, guys."

Chubby Z. said, "It won't be cool unless everybody's like all crying and junk, yo!"

"What are we gonna do?" Leggy P. asked.

They all were ready with the answer. "Crush it!" they said.

And then they broke for lunch.

* * *

When the Ramirezes returned home at 11:30, Stan and Sheila were in the Shack to meet them. Sheila had cooked brunch for everyone. Stan said, "Yeah, yeah, gotta hurry, gonna be late as it is. OK, Gunzell, you're gonna stay in my office until the festival's over. Got a john in there, we can send out for food, your old boss won't know where you are."

Though Wilmer was nervous about the whole idea, he went along with it. He took off the borrowed blazer, but Soos made him keep the tie. "Just a friendship gift, dude," he said cheerfully. As a disguise, Soos gave Wilmer a fake beard, one of his old flannel winter shirts to wear as a jacket—it swallowed Wilmer and hung down to his knees—and a novelty straw hat Soos had brought back from Mexico. Looking at him from any distance, no one would have known the figure as Wilmer. They might have called the police or a mental-health facility, but they wouldn't have recognized Wilmer.

Sheila, who'd expected Stan to need a grab-and-go meal, packed a lunchbox with muffins containing cheese, eggs, and veggies, along with strawberry and peanut-butter quesadillas (Abuelita's invention, originally meant for the kids, but Stan loved them), and a large thermos of coffee. "Let your guest share these," she warned him. "And you be careful." She kissed him.

Wilmer stayed low in the Stanleymobile on the drive over. Exercising his privilege as festival promoter, Stan parked not eight feet from the office door, got out, unlocked, and then surveyed to make sure the coast was clear before motioning Wilmer to hurry inside.

First, Wilmer took off the uncomfortable disguise, and then they ate. Then Stan had Wilmer sit in the visitor's chair. "OK," he said. "I know you already talked to my brother about all this tsuris. Now you had a night's sleep, you been fed, you're outa danger, I want you to go through it all with me."

"There's not much to say," Wilmer told him.

"One thing before you start, though." Stan reached into his pocket and took out a pair of brass knuckles, which he set on the desk. "I understand somehow my niece Mabel is in danger. That, I want to know all about."

He casually tried on the brass knucks. Wilmer's gaze fastened on them.

"Relax. I ain't gonna use these casually," Stanley said. "So tell me the story. Just don't make me angry. We clear?"

Wilmer nodded.

"OK, now spill everything."

And trying hard to recall every detail of what he knew—not all that much—Wilmer spilled it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**23: Running on Empty**

The days, says an old, old song, dwindle down to a precious few.

Just think of how fast the hours fly.

_3:00 PM._

Stanley Pines had been in and out of the office about six times since coming in with Wilmer. Nothing big, straightening out a squabble between a customer and a vendor, arranging to get one band to lend another one a G-string when one broke and the guitarist realized he had no backup and went into a full-blown panic attack, little stuff like that.

On returning, he always found Wilmer hiding in the bathroom.

And, heck, he found himself feeling _sorry_ for the guy. He eventually heard Wilmer's whole life story, from the Amazing Vanishing Dad to Mom's Having to Work to the Resentful Wicked Aunt. He'd heard about Wilmer's taking off on his own while still a teen, chasing some undreamed dream he couldn't even imagine.

The rotten temporary scut jobs, the dreary hitchhiking, the gut-pain of not eating over three or four days—but for the grace of God, there goes Stanley Pines, he thought.

_OK, so technically I'm an atheist or the other thing, what Ford says, an agnostic, but Jeeze, I came so close to being Wilmer Gunzell!_

Stan opened up about his own background, just a little. "Ya think a Texas jail's tough, just hope you don't ever see the wrong side of prison bars in Colombia!" he advised. And "OK, you gonna hitchhike, first rule, ya gotta keep yourself clean. And wear a backpack so's you don't look like a carjacker or a mugger. Learn to size up a driver—some of 'em's gonna want to hustle you for drugs or sex, some of 'em's gonna preach at you, whatever. Pay attention and watch people. They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but you see one with DANGER SCHIZO HOMICIDAL MANIAC in great big red letters, just let that one pass on by."

Wilmer asked Stan if Sev'ral Timez might consent to take Bratsman back on as their manager.

"Not one chance in hell," he said. "The guy they got now, Tad Strange, well, ya wouldn't think it to talk to him, but he's got two things that rhyme and make him a great match for those boys. Smarts and heart, that's what Tad's got. He went into the business not knowing squat, but by the end of the first year, he was managing those guys like a pro. They like him and they're loyal."

"What if Mr. Bratsman gets hold of Mabel?" Wilmer asked in a small voice.

"He does that," Stan said with a cheerful smile, "he won't live long enough to bargain with the guys." He caressed the knuckle dusters with a reminiscent chuckle.

_4:00 PM_

"Aw, come on!" Mabel said in an irritable voice. "He's not here. I can go to the bathroom by myself!"

"Nope," Wendy said. "Not without me, you can't."

"You'd think I was a little baby or something," she grumbled as they left their seats. At the moment, the Ranting Ravens were messing up badly in a cover of "Hanginaround." It sounded as if the lead guitarist had broken a string or something, and the vocalist kept getting thrown and glaring back at the band.

Stan had invited the gang to use the restroom in his office, but the mobile Shack was closer, so they went there. Wendy stood sentry outside the unisex bathroom, watching the last-day crush of concert attendees buying merch—some of them even scoring CDs, that dying technology. Others were loading up on music-logo trucker caps and tee shirts and other crapola, as Stan would say.

The RV had a chemical toilet, so no flush, but Mabel came out smelling of hand disinfectant and wiping her palms on some tissues. "Wanna go?"

"Nope," Wendy said again. "I'm good."

They started back to the stands. "I think this was all just paranoia, anyway," Mabel grumbled. "Nobody's laid a hand on me, and the weird guy who we thought was a stalker turned out not to be. Big foofaraw over nothing!"

"Foofaraw?" Wendy asked.

They got back to their seats in time to hear the Ravens vocalist finishing an apology—huh, the guitarist had broken a string, but now it was fixed—and they did a reprise of the number, sounding better. Not much, it would never go platinum, but a little better.

The old-timers' block came up at five—songs from the fifties, the forties, even, though many were played or sung ironically, so that was all right. However, the four friends took advantage to go off-site for an early dinner. Because they were so early, Los Hermanos Brothers wasn't jam-packed, and they settled in for tacos and burritos.

And though none of them were aware of it, Ergman Bratsman, now badly sunburned, had watched them go and had balled his pudgy fists and was now grinding his teeth as he kept looking at his expensive Rollover wristwatch.

What was taking so long? Where was that damned demon?

Things were moving so slow!

* * *

9:00 PM: As the sun went down, the stands began to feel cooler. To Dipper's surprise, at about a quarter-past nine, a tribute group ("That," Stan had once explained, "is a polite term for 'rip-off artists') called BLABBER took the stage. They were all shaggy blondes, two guys and two girls, the guys wearing plum-colored jumpsuits, the girls in sky-blue ones.

One of the guys took the mike while the keyboardist vamped. "Hiya dere," he said in a transparently fake Scandinavian accent. "How you doin' den? Hey, anybody out dere remember the eighties? Yah? Well, den, you must remember a group called BABBA, and ve ain't dem. But ve're gonna do our best to make you recall dere top-forty hits, and ve're startin' off wit' 'Disco Girl!" He handed off the mike to one of the girls and picked up a guitar.

"By Yiminy!" Wendy finished for him. "Mr. Pines, may I have this dance?"

Grinning all over his face, Dipper stepped into the aisle and as the two girls on stage started to sing and the two guys played the music, the original, they danced to an eerily precise recreation of BABBA's greatest hit.

* * *

Weekend's here and the sun is down,

Nobody wants just to hang around,

Let's go out girl and make the scene,

And you'll be my dancing queen.

* * *

Wendy and Dipper did the silly disco step called the Rabbit, lots of backward leaping, lots of arm swinging. Others jumped up and joined in, dancing in the aisles and the space between the seats and the stage. More than half of the crowd sang along as the chorus began:

* * *

Disco girl, coming through,

That girl is you-ooh-ooh!

* * *

Mabel and Teek joined in. The band, obviously happy, reprised the chorus three times, and then the music stopped and everybody applauded. The first girl vocalist, with no trace of a phony accent, said, "Wow! That's what I'm talking about! Hey, gang, let's go into 'Discomaniac!'"

That had never been a top-forty hit for BABBA, but it had a good beat, and even more people got up to dance.

At one point, Mabel elbowed Dipper. "Look at you! You used to be too shy to ask Wendy to dance!"

"_She_ asked_ me_!" he shot back, happily.

They traded partners, and Dipper did a variation of the TLC dance with Mabel. It wasn't really from the BABBA era, but it fit the beat. After that one, BLABBER segued into "Kensington," a slower ode to a station on the London Underground, and they sat down again.

Mabel leaned over Teek and said, "Dip! I won't tease you about liking girly groups ever again. If they make you happy, go for it!"

Dipper, a little winded, gave her a smile and a thumbs-up.

* * *

11:00 PM: The office wasn't really all that large, but Stan had arranged to have a folding cot brought in. He sat at his desk, surfing the Net, the only light coming from the computer screen as Stan played fake poker for nothing on a few sites and smilingly resisted their urging him to buy some real chips. "Yeah," he said quietly to the screen. "Whattaya think I am, a dummy? Do that, you switch decks, my luck goes south real fast."

And over on the cot, huddled on his side, Wilmer Gunzell slept, now and then groaning a little—not from physical pain, but from flitting, transitory dreams, or dream images, nothing so shaped as a dream with a story.

The day he'd just flat dropped beside a humming highway on a broiling Texas day, too long between drinks of tepid water, sun-dazed. A guard had prodded his buttocks with the toe of a boot. "Git up, mope!"

He tried but couldn't make his knees hold him. The guard picked up his fallen shovel and pressed its blade flat against Wilmer's naked back. In 105-degree sun, it felt like a hot iron.

That had happened. In bad flashes of dream, it happened again.

And another lightning blast of dream-memory: Bratsman's weird books. The one Wilmer had cracked out of curiosity. The page bookmarked with a thin trifold menu from a barbecue joint:

HOW TO SUMMON A DEMON OF WEALTH.

And he almost woke up with a sense of dire urgency.

Like a basketball player who's three inches too short, he rose toward consciousness, rimmed the ball off the net, and fell back again.

_It's coming closer. It's almost here._

And at 11:38, finally, Wilmer woke up and tumbled out of the cot.

Stanley, who'd been holding aces and deuces and was ready to draw one card in hopes of a full house, jumped up. "You OK?" He hurried around the desk and helped Wilmer to his feet.

"The girl!" he said. "Hurry. Bratsman. He—he—"

"What?" Stan asked, resisting the urge to shake it out of the man. He looked so frail that he might just break into pieces.

"He's trading her life to the devil for the boys in the band!" Wilmer gasped.

His head spun. What he had just said was more than he knew for a fact, but somehow, he knew it was a fact.

"What!" Stan bellowed.

"At midnight!" Wilmer heard himself say. _What's happening to me? I feel like a ventriloquist's dummy!_

Stan had punched a button on his phone. When the other party answered, he bellowed, "Ford! It's about to hit the fan! Let's roll!"

Wilmer was in sock feet, but that didn't stop Stan from grabbing his arm and dragging him outside. "Come on!"

In the stands, Mabel said, "Sev'ral Timez is coming up to close the show in a few minutes. I'm gonna hit the bathroom one last time."

Wendy got up, too. Mabel sighed. "If it hasn't happened yet—oh, come on!"

The rolling Shack was closed, and the office looked dark, so they continued to the ranks (in more senses than one) of porta-johns. The first two were vacant, but on opening the doors, Mabel had said, "Ah, no."

"The ones at the far end should be better," Wendy said. "They won't have been used as much."

The one at the very end of the row was no daisy, but it was an improvement. "Just be a minute," Mabel said as she closed the door. The little sign in the handle turned to OCCUPIED.

Meanwhile, Ford, with Wilmer in tow, had reached the VIP section. "Where's Mabel?" he yelled, not caring that his voice overrode the metal sounds of Thunderation onstage.

Dipper put his hands on either side of his mouth. "WENT TO THE BATHROOM!"

"Let's go! Now!"

Teek and Dipper vaulted over the rail and set off running as Stan hustled Wilmer off toward the exit. A Security guy stepped forward, saw Stan was leading them, and let them pass. Ford emerged from somewhere and, without asking a question or putting in a word, joined them as they ran.

Meanwhile, a heavyset woman in a muumuu—remember those?—stood, her hands clenched in fists of rage, and a weird thing happened.

"Dude!" said a guy who had been sitting behind her, "Did you see that? That lady just turned into a dude, dude!"

"Wicked gnarly," said his buddy. "Hey, gimme another brownie."

Ergman Bratsman, brandishing his cane the way a Highlander might brandish his Claymore, shoved and swatted and swore his way down the aisle to the steps. He was wearing his green trousers, suspenders, white shirt, and regular black walking shoes, and the probably-fake blonde hair had vanished, leaving him bald as a turkey egg, but the eyebrow pencil, eye shadow, rouge, and lipstick had unaccountably remained on his face.

Not that they made him particularly stand out. Not at Woodstick.

Back outside the portable john, Wendy heard a strange sound, like something gasping. She knocked on the door. "You OK in there?"

No response. She pounded on the door. "Mabel? Answer me!"

People came running up. Stan yelled, "She in there?"

Wendy futilely rattled the potty door. "She's not answering!"

"Bust the door!"

Wendy politely axed her way in. The stinky cubicle, lit by one dim yellow bulb, was empty. No Mabel.

"You sure she was in there?" Stan yelled.

"Yes! She couldn't have left, I was standing right outside the door—"

"Quick!" someone yelled. "I'll help. Come on. We have to take my van!"

Nobody even asked a question.

They all hurried, following Love God.

It was nine minutes to midnight.

Sev'ral Timez waited in the wings to take the stage.

For their farewell performance.


	24. Chapter 24

**Very Last Gig!**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**24: Everyone I Know Goes Away**

Open the eye of imagination. No living human eye has ever seen this place. No dead human eye, either, nor any human eye that was once alive but now is dead, or once dead but now—

OK, look, flat out and straight up, nobody's ever been here, right? In body or in spirit or any combination of the two whatsoever.

Where were we?

Oh, yes. The scene. Imagine an appalling dome of emptiness, like a cavern that's never seen the sunshine, never felt the rain. And it is vast, like slice the moon in two and scoop out one half of it like a grapefruit rind and plump it down beneath the surface, a cavern measureless to man. To woman, too, unless she carries around one of those tiny little measuring tapes in her purse.

Anyway, it's an upended bowl of empty space, and from the feeling you get gazing up into the dizzying gulf, you know you're in deep. The first thing you'd wonder is "how in the he—um, heck am I even seeing this?"

Right you are to wonder. You stand in a dungeon horrible, on all sides round. It flames like a furnace, and yet what comes from those flames isn't light. You might call it darkness made visible. Right, Johnny Milton?*

No one would willingly go there. Well, maybe a fool would rush in, but an angel would hesitate to tread there.

Don't get me wrong. It doesn't look like a torture chamber. No chains, whips, thumbscrews, racks, crushing boots, iron maidens, breaking wheels, brazen bulls, pear of anguish (just one's no good, luv, take the whole set), no equipment for boardings dry or wet or keelhauling, not a single Palestine chair, no pincers, boiling oil . . . we'd better cut this short. Don't blame me, I'm just the narrator. Blame all your forebears who invented more kinds of torture than you're willing to read about.

Anyway, there's none of that here. Just the sense that the apex of the dome stretches maybe a mile above you and that you are most probably near the center, since you can barely make out those writhing dark flames along the circular horizon, all around you and far in the distance. It is definitely on the warm side, too. Sort of like the interior of a van parked for seven hours in the sun in Orlando, Florida.

No sounds. Those ghastly flames make no whispery or crackly burny noises. You wish they would. You wish something would make a sound before you start screaming.

Ah, wait, the host just showed up. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the one, the only, the original Demon of Wealth, the Duke of Ducats, the Prince of Pelf himself, give it up for Mammonus! Yes, of course he looks different now. Man gets home from work, he wants to change, right? Mr. Rogers takes off that sport jacket, puts on a comfy sweater his mom gave him, trades off his walk-a-day leather Oxford shoes for comfortable sneakers or canvas boat shoes.

Mammonus has taken off his human skin.

Now he looks . . . attractive, in a twisted way. A tall demon, and thin, fit though not overly muscular. Hey, you want muscles, go to Hades—no, don't get insulted—and look up Sisyphus. Man, that guy is totally ripped! They keep sizing up the boulders and he keeps sizing up his muscles.

Tall, was Mammonus, with friendly features (but his teeth are sharp fangs, sharkish), a widow's peak, no horns—they interfered with styling, and he never wore them unless he had to appear at some official function—lustrous wavy black hair that falls halfway down his neck, long, sensitive fingers, a forked tail, long legs, like a male dancer might—what? OK, yes, he has _that, _too, nothing flabbergasting, though, it's sort of normal sized for a human male, except it's scaled up because he's approximately twelve feet tall—yes, of _course_ he's naked! What do you mean, do demons have sex? They do if they're in the mood, I suppose—oh. Oh, do they have _gender._

That's complicated. They can appear in the body of a man or a woman, as they like. Normally, they don't bother with the, um, the accessories, shall we say, sort of a Ken-and-Barbie deal there, but when dealing with humans they often put on at least the appearance of male or female or, depending on the person being tempted, perhaps a blend of the two. It varies. Angels are roughly the same, except most of them make a decision early on and stick with it and if one of them, say Cupid, falls deeply in love with a mortal or someone else who has a permanent gender, then that one, say Cupid, becomes permanently male (in his case) or female (in others).

Yeah, I know. It probably makes much more sense to _them_.

Anyway, look at Mammonus as there he stands, one knee bent slightly, chin down, darkly brooding—no bat wings! No! Those are a Medieval embroidery. And his feet are human-looking, not goat hooves. He looks like an exceptionally tall, fit, lean bright red human who happens to have a sinuous, coiling tail. No, no more questions, please. Look, you want to tell this story? Very well, then, let me get on with it.

In this vast chamber of null time, no matter how much any random humans dragged into it might be filled with passion, jealousy, and hate, no time goes by. It seems to—but it's the eternity of Paradise or Hades, and it just keeps rolling along.

But when Mammonus decides that it is, so to speak, time to prepare, he waves an arm and a throne appears. Not one of those gaudy things you see in European museums, but a good, sleek, modest, comfortable throne of silver. Gold accoutrements are reserved for Somebody Else where Mammonus comes from. But it's a dignified, impressive throne, not overloaded with geegaws and carvings. And you can't see it from here, but there's a little lever on the left side, and if Mammonus pulls it, a footrest swings up and the whole thing reclines.

He doesn't recline it, though. He sits there in his infernal majesty, nods, and murmurs, "It's show time!"

An opening glimmers into existence, and through it stumbles a furious, fat figure of a man. He swings a club, no, wait, it's just a cane with a gold orb for a handle, yelling his head off. Then he sees the gigantic figure looming in front of him and screams.

"Take it down a few notches," Mammonus says, wincing. "It's me. I'm your host for tonight. Recognize me now?"

Bratsman did not react with joy. He started to tremble. "What is this?"

"The transfer," Mammonus said. "We have to gather the parties to the case."

The air quivered. Another opening, another showed up—Mabel Pines, just fastening her jeans and looking both startled and outraged. "_What the hey_?" she yelled. Then she saw Bratsman.

And at the same null instant, both of them roared, "You!"

Mammonus, looking like the guy in the headache ads, asked, "Mr. Bratsman, do you still have the pen I gave you?"

Without taking his furious gaze off Mabel, the former manager of Sev'ral Timez pulled the ballpoint from his shirt pocket.

"Hey, you!" Mabel said. "Big red naked guy! Don't trust this man. He's a buttface!"

Ignoring her, Mammonus said, "Hang onto the pen. You'll need it. Now we should bring in the boys in the band and their current manager."

He waved his hand and Sev'ral Timez materialized about three feet above the floor and tumbled down to the ground in a jumble of white suits, flailing arms, kicking legs, and confused expressions.

"Yo!" Deep Chris said, rolling to his stomach and pushing himself to his feet. "Not righteous! Where's my hat? Where are we?"

"It's someplace," said Creggy G, "that looks like no place!"

"Oh, man, is this Ashland?" Chubby Z. asked in a panicked voice. "I have nightmares about playing Ashland again!"

A moment later Tad Strange popped up, standing, but staggering a little as he materialized. He took in the scene, and from his expression of near-catatonic passivity, you could tell how frightened he was.

"Boss!" Leggy P. yelled, "What's happened? Who's the red dude? Hi, Mabel. Oh, snap, there's Mr. Bratsman, y'all!"

"I'm too terrified to respond to you," Tad replied mildly. "Sir, you should put something on. There's a lady present."

With a grunt of irritation, Mammonus snapped his fingers. Clothes—a red hooded robe, anyway—materialized out of air and draped him decently. "Now, Mr. Brats—_what now_?"

A van—an actual automobile—skidded out of nothingness into existence tilted way back on its rear wheels, thumped down, and fishtailed as it kicked up a rooster tail of red dust. Its wheels spun furiously, sending up flashes of yellow fire and billows of clotted blue-white smoke, like—well—OK, you know those magazines your dad kept stashed in the old bureau in the attic?

No, not _those, _with the poor ladies who couldn't afford clothes, but the really old ones, the gap-toothed-grin, what-me-worry ones? Well, as the van slewed in its cloud of dust, fire, and smoke, it looked like one of those nightmare hotrods that Basil Wolverton or Ed Roth used to draw in those magazines. Oh, go up to the attic and find out for yourself.

The van came to a side-skidding, tire-squealing deceleration in a floating dust cloud about the color of dried blood, and before it was even fully at rest, a crowd spilled out of it.

The driver stepped out—Love God, but, like Mammonus, morphing as he straightened up into a different form, still heavy, but muscular and about as tall as Mammonus. And his wings sprouted and unfolded, many times larger than the vestigial pinions he normally sported. And his robes were samite, shining white, and a glow of golden light hovered around his head. "I object!" he thundered, making a mental note to remember that timbre for some eventual song.

From his throne, Mammonus frowned at him. "Don't you fear to tread here?"

"Not when you're pulling such a dirty trick!"

Ford held out the wooden cross and recited the beginning of the anti-demon spell.

"Oh, please," Mammonus said, rolling his eyes. "Don't waste your time. Look around you! You can't banish me from here—because here's the place where I would be banished to!"

"To which I would be banished!" Ford returned. "Grammar!"

"Yeah, that'll tell him, Poindexter!" Stanley said, reaching into the side pocket of his jacket. "Hey, big guy, let's you and me go a couple rounds!"

"How about we flip for it, double or nothing?" asked Mammonus with a smile.

Stan froze. In an Antarctic voice, he growled, "Don't you try that on me with my family at stake!"

"Whoo," said Mammonus. "You're really upset. OK, nobody can physically harm me here, all right? This isn't personal. It's just business."

"That's what they told my cousin Salvatore, and look what it got him!"

"Everyone stay where you are," Mammonus said.

By that time, Teek and Dipper had hugged Mabel. Wendy stood in front of them and unsheathed her axe, which gleamed with an inner silver light. "Anybody touches Mabel, he answers to me!" she yelled.

"Send these people away!" yelled Bratsman.

"No can do. See the guy in white? He's an angel. One of them comes here, it stays until it goes. Same with one of us that goes to visit them. What goes with us goes for our guests, too. All right, let's just get on with it. Mr. Tad Strange, my client, Ergman Bratsman, wishes to recover the contract for the services, body, and souls of these five young men."

"No!" three of the guys yelled. Greggy C. yelled, "Don't do it, Mr. Strange! Mr. Bratsman is most unrighteous!"

"Right on!" agreed Creggy G. "He is a straight evil stevil, yo!"

"If you please!" roared Mammonus. "Let me have your answer, Mr. Strange!"

His terrifying voice stilled everyone else. Everyone looked at Tad, who was sweating and blinking.

_Oh, no, _thought Dipper. _He's so scared he's gonna say—_

"I decline," Tad said firmly.

"You little piece of—" began a red-faced Bratsman.

"Hey, hey!" Stanley shouted. "I wouldn't say nothing I'd regret if I was a guy with lipstick and eye makeup on!"

"Silence," said Mammonus quietly.

And he got it. Mabel was struggling to speak, but somehow no sounds came out.

Love God said, "Don't strain yourself. Mortals can't talk in here unless they're allowed. Sorry."

"Very well," Mammonus said. "My client offers the life of the girl, Mabel Pines, in exchange for the contract with Sev'ral Timez. Mabel Pines, here!" He pointed, and Mabel vanished from where she stood protected by her friends and reappeared alone about ten feet from Bratsman, and about twenty from the stunned-looking five guys from Sev'ral Timez.

"Nobody move," said Mammonus.

Dipper, Wendy, and Teek tried, but it felt as though their feet had grown roots.

"Don't fight the spell. Do as he says!" cautioned Love God.

"Bratsman, the wand!" snapped Mammonus, who seemed to be losing patience.

"What wand?" bawled Bratsman.

"The pen, the pen! Point it toward Mabel. Now—if you decline the request, Mr. Strange, Mr. Bratsman will grip the wand, aim it at the girl, give the order, "Die!" and Mabel Pines's life will be taken."

"No, dude!" screamed Chubby Z.

"Yo, she's our ideal, dude!" added Deep Chris.

"You are not taking our girl," warned Creggy G.

"Like, over our dead bodies—" began Leggy P.

Greggy C. had no chance to express his point of view because Mammonus waved silence over the group, too. "Get ready, Mr. Bratsman," said Mammonus.

Grinning like a maniac, Bratsman extended his hand, gripping the pen. "This is for ruining my life!" he snarled.

"Wait!" Tad yelled. "Guys?"

Mammonus flicked his fingers, releasing the silence spell.

"Do it, Mr. S!" said Leggy P.

"Solid go," agreed Deep Chris.

"We can't let Mabel die," said Creggy G.

Greggy C. was sobbing audibly.

Chubby Z. held his brother and, his face like the mask of tragedy, mutely nodded.

A single tear rolled from their manager's eye and down his cheek. "I agree," Tad whispered. "Let her go."

"Mr. Bratsman," Mammonus said, "the group Sev'ral Timez is yours. The next move is up to you."

Dipper realized what was going to happen. So did Teek and Wendy. Desperation gave them strength to break whatever force held them. Screaming defiance, they threw themselves forward.

But Bratsman had started to shriek the word.

Somehow—impossibly, it seemed, but somehow—somehow all five Sev'ral Timez guys threw themselves in front of Mabel, pushing her down, standing in the way.

"—Die! Wait! No! Not them! I take it back!"

"No!" Mabel screamed.

Too late. A jet of dire red light shot from the pen. All five of the boys collapsed like marionettes whose strings had been severed. They fell with a dreadful finality.

"I take it back!" Bratsman bawled, waving the wand like a doctor taking the temperature of hell. "They're no good to me dead! I take it back!"

"Document four, which you willingly signed, clearly states 'No Backsies,'" said Mammonus with a prim glance. "Oh, and Document five specifies that upon the death of any one or more of the group Sev'ral Timez, your soul belongs to me. Therefore—"

No wand, no shouted word, no jet of red light, just a point of the demon's finger.

Something small, shining, and wailing ripped out of Bratsman's obese body, arced to Mammonus's hand. He closed his fist on it. For a moment, Bratsman sagged, and then, not like a marionette, but more like a punctured Thanksgiving Day parade balloon, he deflated.

Ergman Bratsman was as dead as Sev'ral Timez.

On her knees among the fallen singers, Mabel reached out and gripped Dipper's arm hard, shaking him. "Do something! Some—somebody do—Teek, help them—Wendy, they were li-like little kids—Grunkle Stan, G-Grunkle F-Ford, p-please!" Her voice had risen, raw pain, and then Mabel shook with a storm of sobs as her friends clustered around her and tried to make her let go her hold of Deep Chris's lolling head.

This, this for Mabel Pines—this was the day the music died.

* * *

*Johnny Milton was the vocalist and lead guitarist for an obscure group, Satin and the Fallen Angles. He was about as good at music as he was at spelling. Fifty years after the group's three months of existence ended, he lives in Racine with his wife and looks back on a prosperous career as an alluminum sidding salesman.


	25. Chapter 25

**Very Last Gig**

**(August 10-13, 2017)**

* * *

**25: You Know They've Got a Hell of a Band**

_Part 1: "Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me"_

Perhaps Mammonus acted from some unsuspected lingering spark of kindness left over from the old days, before he and his besties fell from Paradise, or perhaps Mabel's hysterical grief just bothered him. He snapped his fingers, and Mabel's wails were cut off like a drunk with thirty-five cents left in his pocket.

"There," the demon said. "I've stopped time perception for the mortals." That meant that when it restarted, they would be unaware of the interruption. Meanwhile, without technically being frozen, they sort of sagged in place. Mammonus hardly glanced at them. "We won't have a lot of null time before they come for me. Here. Don't lose this." He tossed Love God a tiny red-and-white tin box, labeled "HELLTOIDS MINTS – They're devilishly strong."

Love God tucked it away. "If this goes bad, at least thanks for sparing Ma—"

"Don't go soppy on me. Anyhow, you won't take any heat for Mr. Bratsman. Check with Azrael. He'll confirm Bratsman was due. Acute coronary infarction." He snapped his fingers again, and the body of the fat man disappeared. "There, back where he came from. Once we return from null time, the Security men and EMTs will waste an hour trying to administer CPR. Meanwhile, we can expect a visit from—"

"I think they're here," Love God said. The atmosphere in the cavern had subtly changed. For one thing, it stank of sulfur.

"Oh, my Devil," groaned Mammonus, turning his back toward the new arrivals. "The three B's. Lucky me. Here they come. Go!"

Love God drew himself up. "Deceiver! Murderer! You worthless piece of—"

"What manner of insolence transpires here?" boomed a frightening voice.

"—impiety!" finished Love God. He turned toward the newcomers as though he had not been aware of them. "Who the devil are you?"

Three figures, each as tall as Mammonus and Love God, stood before them. These were full-blown traditional devils—gruesome, pebbly, scarlet skin, curving horns, forked tongues, body armor made of asbestos (they're immune), thatches of coarse black body hair escaping through the chinks, and on their cruel faces, expressions of implacable, unending hateful evil.

"Oh, sorry, distracted, hello," Mammonus said, slapping his hands together and contriving to look frightened. "Introductions, yes. Cupid, allow me to present Belial, Beelzebub, and Be'lith, Princes of the Infernal region—I do beg your pardon, Be'lith prefers to be a Princess. B, B, and B, this is Cupid, also known as Eros, an, pardon my Latin, angelus. To what do I owe the dishonor of this visit?"

"_What_ have you been doing?" Be'lith asked. In place of hair, she had slender, squirming snakes (specifically, they were specimens of what would be named _Atractaspis branchi_, a species that would be unknown to Earthly herpetologists for two more years).

"My duty," Mammonus said smoothly. "I tempted a man, had him sign a contract, fulfilled it, and collected his debt. Business as usual, sort of thing He should have arrived already."

"He arrived," Beelzebub snarled. "He started spouting complaints as soon as he passed Cerberus!"

"Don't they all?" asked Mammonus.

"That is true," said Belial. "But these were not only furious, but also specific. He said that you failed to provide him with the promised reward before de-souling him."

"He was right!" said Love God hotly. "This—this creature signed a contract promising the victim that he could take the life of an innocent girl in exchange for possession of five humans! He substituted the lives of the group that the victim sought to gain as his slaves!"

"Did not!" Mammonus said indignantly.

"Did too!"

"Did not! He owned the contract for Sev'ral Timez! He just didn't live long enough to exploit them!"

"That's a technicality!"

"Is not, a thousand times!"

"Is too, infinity!"

"Is not, infinity plus—"

"Stop it!" ordered Beelzebub. "Look, you, Cupid, angels cannot lie, correct?"

After a moment of collecting himself, Love God said, "If I could, I'd tell you I could, but I can't tell you that I could because I can't, so you're right. I have to tell the truth. And I say—wait. Mammonus gave Bratsman—he was the victim—"

"We prefer the word 'prey,'" Be'lith corrected primly.

"The prey, then," Love God said. "Mammon here gave the prey the Wand of Destruction. The girl—the sacrifice—stood before him. Mammon had the owner of the boys' contract surrender it to Bratsman, who they, the boys I mean, supposed would spare the girl's life—but Bratsman was going to kill her anyway, and he tried, but—" Love God broke off and turned angrily toward Mammonus. "You tricked him! You knew those five boys would throw themselves in front of her!"

"Oh, come on! How in the heaven could I have known that?" demanded Mammonus. "They did that themselves. I had nothing to do with it! And I did my part. You just said it yourself, I did have the boys' manager turn over their contract to the prey, fulfilling my deal with Bratsman. It was his idea to try to kill her anyway, and his bad luck that he hit the boys and sealed his fate. Here are the papers to prove it." He handed a file of contracts to Be'lith.

"Free will," Love God said, sounding stunned. "Of course you didn't know the boys would sacrifice themselves for a friend. They were human."

Belial said, "Do I understand this? Because of Mammon's handling of the case, not only did the prey die, but five innocents as well?" He burst into laughter. "That's pretty bad!"

"All right, no need for a fair trial here, let's decide this case," Beelzebub said. "Oh, you, angel—take these bodies and those living humans away, please."

"I'll have to miracle it," Love God said.

"Get on with it," said Be'lith.

Love God gazed at his van, which under the force of his regard became a stretched van. The five bodies vanished. Then the living, Tad Strange, both Grunkles, Teek, Mabel, Dipper, and Wendy all disappeared, too. Love God hesitated. "Mind if I wait before starting the engine? I've been part of this, and I want to see how this trial turns out. I want to see Mammon get what he deserves."

"Curiosity is a sin, little angel," leered Beelzebub.

"I'm not curious! Look, it's not for me. When I get back upstairs, I'll have a report to file in triplicate," Love God said with all the dignity he could muster. "You know how it is."

Beelzebub looked surprised, but then he glanced at his two fellow demons, who grinned and nodded. "Very well," he said. "You may wait."

One thing that devils understand is bureaucracy.

The three nobles of hell retreated some distance, briefly studied the papers that Mammon had turned over, and had a quick conversation. Then they all nodded. They returned and said, "Mammon, you committed a vile, reprehensible act of treachery. You did ensnare a sinful creature, and you, perhaps inadvertently, were responsible for the deaths of five innocent ones." He paused for effect and then said, "Well done! Bad for you! No punishment is to be inflicted."

The three magistrates vanished in a burst of yellow smoke that faded to ochre and then dissipated.

"I can't believe it," Cupid said. "We scam—"

Mammonus shushed him: "Sh-sh! Not here. Let's talk about it topside. Room in that thing to give me a lift?"

"Right. Come on. I want to get out of here. But keep the null time until we get everything situated."

That was a tiny bit tricky, but Mammonus had a lot of practice under his belt. Or sash—the red robe had a sash. "All right," he said as they opened the van doors. "I think that's got it."

Love God had gone back to his Earthly appearance. "Better change," he advised. "Or you'll never fit."

"Oh, thanks, I forgot." He became a suave-looking guy in a business suit. "There we go. Sorry, but if I might indulge myself in a little black truth, I was a wee bit nervous about what the B's might do to me if they caught on."

"Buckle up," Love God said.

"Oh, yeah, I'm real afraid of dying in a fiery crash," Mammonus said. "That was sarcasm."

"I would never have thought you capable of it." Love God turned the key in the ignition, the engine fired, and they sped forward over the sandy, featureless plain.

"What's the idea?" Mammonus asked, grabbing for the armrest and sounding a little nervous as the speedometer swiveled past the red mark.

"We can't escape from here until we hit 88 miles per hour," Love God said. "Eighty-five, brace yourself—"

The air outside turned to fire.

* * *

"It's been lovely, but you can let go of my arm now, darling," Love God said. "That was sarcasm, too."

With an effort, Mammonus made his fingers unclench. "You're parked," he said. "But a second ago, we were going 88 miles per hour—all right, you got me. How the heaven did you do that?"

"You have to be going 88 miles per hour in one time-reality to enter another one," Love God said. "Well-known fact. What people don't know is that when you arrive, you don't have to be going that fast. You can be all but stopped. It's in the transition, that's when you decelerate."

"But when you arrived in null time, you were going like a bat out of home—"

"Against the advent of a quick getaway," Love God said. "I didn't know what we might find, so I stayed nearly at escape velocity just in case I didn't want to stay—come on, we've got to tidy up."

He had to enlarge the interior of the van even more—it was stretched, but they had quite a crowd to deal with. That was all right. Using standard British fantasy physics, he made the interior larger than the exterior.

They propped up Deep Chris, Chubby Z., Greggy C., Creggy G., and Leggy P. against the side of the van, their bodies sitting on the deck like rag dolls at rest. They carefully set Mabel in front of them, with Tad beside her. Then Wendy, Dipper, and Teek, all in a seated position on the floor. They let both elder Pines twins sit in swivel seats, but they turned them toward the others.

"Do you have the souls?" asked Mammonus.

Love God looked panicky. "Me?"

"The tin of mints?" asked Mammonus.

"Oh. You mean they're in—I didn't know. It's here somewhere, I hope—no, that's my throat spray—I'm sure I had it—ah. Got it. All, uh, five are in—?"

"Yes. Just open it and let them fly."

"But, wait—they're all alike. How will we get the right ones into the right bodies? Ouch! Why did you slap the back of my head?"

"They are _clones_!"

"Still, one's going to be mad if another one's got his hat!"

"Let them out one at a time. Maybe they've got a homing sense."

Very carefully, Love God freed one golden spark. It hovered in the air for a moment, then plunged straight into Greggy C. "Seems to work," the cherub said, letting the others out. They zipped into the inert bodies.

"Oh, dudes!" Greggy C. said, shaking Chubby Z. "Are you, like, dead?"

"Stop it, bro, I'm aiight," said Chubby Z. "Like, where is our manager, yo?"

They came out of it so fast that Love God had a hard time persuading them that everyone was, in Chubby Z.'s word, aiight. "Don't worry about Mr. Bratsman," he said.

Mammonus, lounging with his arms crossed and leaning against the wall, said, "Oh, Bratsman, you won't see him no more."

"What's wrong with our girl Mabel?" asked Deep Chris.

"She's just sleeping. OK, I'm going to wake everyone up and then explain a few things."

No one was groggy. Everyone assembled, Mabel still bewildered and sniffling, Teek holding her and comforting her, Wendy muttering, "I don't even get to use my axe? Lame!"

"Let me tell you what happened," Love God said. "No, it's too long, I'll summarize. Bratsman made a deal with this guy, who's OK for a demon, to threaten Mabel and get Sev'ral Timez's contract from Mr. Strange. But then Bratsman was going to kill Mabel anyway, but you—all of you young people, you threw yourselves in front of her, and the five boys were zapped by Bratsman, who then suffered a heart attack and died."

Wendy reluctantly sheathed her act. "_Deus ex machina_ endings are weak, man!"

"_Diabolus ex machina_," murmured Mammonus. Love God shot him a hard glance, and he returned a simpering smile.

"I don't understand any of this," Ford said.

"Yo, L.G., dog, what about that contract? Are we in the employ of a zombie dude, dude?" asked a nervous Deep Chris.

"My colleague will respond to that," Love God said.

Mammonus reached inside his jacket. "Mr. Bratsman signed a simple-form will in the past day or so making me his sole heir. Everything he had is now at my disposal. Mr. Strange, I return the boys' contract to you. That preserves status quo and we need no complicating paperwork."

"Thank you," Tad said, clutching the document. "Thank you for the lives of my boys." He held out his hand.

"You should never shake a demon's hand," Mammonus said, not unkindly. Tad settled for a fist-bump.

"What about Wilmer Gunzell?" asked Stan. "Poor little bas—basket case has had nothin' but hard luck all his life, and he spent like seven years of it workin' for Bratsman. He gets cut loose with nothin' to show for it?"

Ford looked at Tad. "Mr. Strange, couldn't your men use a staff person to help them out?"

"Dig it!" said Creggy G. "He called us men! Yo, are we not men?"

"We totally are!" agreed Greggy C. as he high-fived his brother. "Does anybody else's mouth taste like real strong mint?"

"Mammon, do the right thing," Love God warned.

The demon sighed. "What will you pay Mr. Gunzell, Mr. Strange?"

Tad thought a minute. "I'd say twenty dollars an hour, to start with."

"What's that amount to for a seven-year term?"

Instantly, Stan said, "That's $407,840.00, allowing for one leap year. 'Course you'll have to do withholding for taxes. If he can claim residence in Oregon, our state income tax rate beats California. He's got an Oregon driver's license, so—"

Mammonus snapped his fingers. "Mr. Strange, the sum will appear in your accounts. Sign Mr. Gunzell on as a personal assistant, term seven years. I'll trust you to take care of disbursing the salary to Mr. Gunzell and accounting for the taxes and so forth. Any raises from that amount will be up to you. Good luck, these finances are diabolically beyond me."

"Well," Love God said. "Now we just have to get you boys on stage to perform your farewell set—"

"Oh, man," Deep Chris said. "It's way too late for that. Must be one or two in the morning."

"No, you'll come back at the same time as you left," Love God said.

"Ah. Cyclic quantum time entanglement," Ford said.

"Yeah, all right," Love God agreed. "Everybody outside the van here will be frozen in the same attitude they had when you men were taken. We'll just walk you back and then start time again—"

"Wait, wait, dudes," said Leggy P. "Mabel, girl, you've been through a lot for us. Would you do us the honor of, like, joining us on stage to sing our last song?"

"Oh," Mabel said as her face turned crimson. "I'm not a real singer. Not professionally."

"Go for it, Sweetie!" Stan said.

"But—I don't know the song, and I haven't rehearsed—"

"Mr. Love God, sir," said Deep Chris, "can you give us like an hour of rehearsal time?"

Love God glanced at Mammonus, who rolled his eyes and subtly shook his head. But the cherub said, "Sure thing! Dipper, can you play lead guitar? Mabel, keyboard? I'll get Manfred from Storm Winnings to take the bass. Teek, can you keep a beat on the drums? Wendy, can you, uh—"

"I play a mean tambourine," she said with a grin.

"Then," Love God said, "let's jam!"

* * *

_Part 2: "Somebody is gonna miss you"_

The EMTs had departed with the fat man whom no one knew or, sad to say, cared about.

Almost. Wilmer Gunzell, a little dazed, found himself sitting in the VIP seats with Stanford, Stanley, and Tad Strange. He had just shaken hands to take on a job as Sev'ral Timez's first PA. He had worked for Mr. Bratsman, had waited out his time in prison, and then had come way too close to being involved in something horrible. He knew, objectively, that Bratsman had been an evil, repellent man and was now a dead man.

And yet Bratsman had hired him—admittedly, for a pittance—when no one else would.

It is rather poignant that as Sev'ral Timez took its place on stage for its last number, of all those thousands, Wilmer Gunzell alone thought of Bratsman and murmured, "God rest his soul."

Just as well he didn't know the whole story.

On stage, Deep Chris took the mike. "Yo, my friends, here we stand for the last night of the greatest music festival in this part of Central Oregon! Give it up for Woodstick!"

Everyone was in a great mood. The cheers and applause swelled. "Now, you know me and my brothers are launching out on a whole new career. We hope you'll watch our Webflix show, guys and gals. And even as we retire from life on the road, we have reached a momentous decision—guys, tell everybody!"

The five harmonized: "We're coming back for Woodstick next year!"

The crowd went wild.

"Now, now," said Deep Chris. "Some friends of ours have joined us up here. This is a brand-new song, everybody. We wrote it, Mr. Dipper Pines right here on lead guitar helped us fine-tune it, and Miss Mabel Pines on keyboard, Miss Wendy Corduroy on tambourine, our good friend Manfred Storm taking the bass guitar, and Mr. Teek O'Grady on the drums are all gonna help us play and sing it. This goes out to you, Gravity Falls, with all the love in our hearts. Hit it!"

"Let's go," said Mammonus, and he and Love God vanished discreetly.

But the song, as they say, went on:

* * *

_MABEL SINGS:_

Five whole years ago,

One summer I recall,

A concert tour came to the Falls,

My friends and me went to the show. . . .

But it sold out, we couldn't go,

Though in our hearts we felt the music's calls—

So we snuck in through the backstage door—

And we were standing right before—

A tall hamster cage crammed with more—

Handsome guys with velvet songs—

And I thought Sev'ral Timez belongs

In Gravity Falls, we'll right their wrongs—

But now we'll say, "so long."

So bye, bye, my five lovely guys,

Gonna miss you, like to kiss you, but there's tears in my eyes,

Wish you luck and wish you fame that ahead of you lies,

But this is the time for good-byes.

This is the time for good-byes.

_SEV'RAL TIMEZ SINGS:_

Mabel, girl, you set us free,

And Creggy G got to kiss a tree!

You had us but you let us go—

You believed in our rock'n'roll,

And it helped to save our immortal soul,

We love you girl, but now we have to close the show.

We love you all, now thanks for the ride,

Thanks for stayin' by our side,

Let's kick off one last song,

And dig it, sing along!

We're happy singers now off the road,

We're layin' down a heavy load,

Now stand up, make your voices strong!

_MABEL:_

(YELLS) Everybody! Help me sing it!

(SINGS) So bye, bye, our five lovely guys,

Gonna miss you, like to kiss you, but there's tears in my eyes,

Wish you luck and wish you fame that ahead of you lies,

But this is the night for good-byes.

This is the night for good-byes.

_SEV'RAL TIMEZ:_

Now for five years we've been on the road,

And to our girl Mabel our thanks are owed,

So different than it used to be-

'Cause Bratsman, that old fat man, robbed us blind—

But Multibear, dude, he was so kind,

And showed us how to scrounge and hibernate

Oh, and then we met Tad Strange (Take a bow, Taddy!)

And our comeback at Woodstick he arranged,

The people made us love music more,

So since then we've toured the world,

Seen all the countries' flags unfurled,

And now we've come back to the start,

To say goodbye here in the park,

Before we go, we just love you so—

Go on now singing—

_ALL:_

Bye, bye, our five lovely guys,

Gonna miss you, like to kiss you, but there's tears in my eyes,

Wish you luck and wish you fame that ahead of you lies,

But this is the night for good-byes.

This is the night for good-byes.

_SEV'RAL TIMES_:

Let's slow it down, but it's not the blues,

'Cause guys we have some cheerful news—

Friends, we're not going far away—

Next year you'll see us on TV,

Where five young lawyers we will be,

And we'll sing new songs in every episode.

So stay in touch, hang on to see us,

And don't forget our girl who freed us,

The five guys who always sing, girl, just for you—

Not the girl in the next row, but you, our love so true—

It's not forever, but a short goodbye—

One more time let's all start singing—

_ALL:_

Bye, bye, our five lovely guys,

Gonna miss you, like to kiss you, but there's tears in my eyes,

Wish you luck and wish you fame that ahead of you lies,

But this is the night for good-byes.

This is the night for good-byes.

* * *

_Part 3: "I can feel the devil walking next to me"_

From their lawn chairs way up on the hillside, Mammonus and Love God could hear the music and even the words.

"What is this?" asked Mammonus, holding up a bottle.

"These," said Love God, holding up his own, "as far as I know are the last two bottles of Old Noah's Original Paradise Nectar still on the earth. I saved them for a special occasion."

They savored a sip. "Wicked," Mammonus said approvingly.

"We pulled it off," Love God said. "I can't believe it."

Mammonus took another long drink. "We got away with it. So far. You know, I have to say, that acting you did—you weren't all that bad."

"Thank you," Love God said, savoring the heavenly drink. "And if you'll permit me to say it, your deciding to change the game in Mabel's favor—that was pretty good."

"Here's to a little bad in the best angel."

"And to a little good in the evilest demon."

They clinked. They drank.

"You can call me Mammon," Mammonus said. "Heaven, even call me Mam if you want."

"Thanks, I'll stick to Mammon. You can call me anything. You won't upset me."

"You know, that music—it seems to be making a lot of humans happy."

"Try it some time."

There on the grassy hilltop, angel and demon joined in the last chorus, their voices soft and surprisingly well-matched, light baritone and tenor, the harmony perfect:

* * *

Bye, bye, our five lovely guys,

_Gonna miss you, like to kiss you, but there's tears in my eyes,_

_Wish you luck and wish you fame that ahead of you lies,_

_But this is the night for good-byes._

_This is the night for good-byes._

* * *

"Not bad," chuckled Love God.

"Pretty good," agreed Mammon.

And then down below in the far darkness of a warm August night, the stage lights went out as small pinpoints of light—lighters, candles, like that—flickered on, and, they say, the standing ovation went on and on and became, like the record.

Music, man. It hath charms, they say. Oh, yeah, it hath charms.

* * *

The End


End file.
